centesimo to bless himself with. He is here alone and in despair. He is a lad full of heart. Let us see a bit. Can't we find enough to pay for his ticket to go to Cordova in search of his mother? Are we to leave him here like a dog?”
“Never in the world, by Heavens! That shall never be said!” they all shouted at once, hammering on the table with their fists. “A fellow-countryman of ours! Come hither, little fellow! We are emigrants! See what a handsome young rogue! Out with your coppers, comrades! Bravo! Come along! He has pluck! Drink a sup, compatriot! We'll send you to your mother; never fear!”
And one pinched his cheek, another slapped him on the shoulder, a third relieved him of his bag; other emigrants rose from the neighboring tables, and gathered about; the boy's story made the round of the inn; three Argentine guests hurried in from the adjoining room; and in less than ten minutes the Lombard peasant, who was passing round the hat, had collected forty-two lire.
“Do you see,” he then said, turning to the boy, “how fast things are done in America?”
“Drink!” cried another to him, offering him a glass of wine; “to the health of your mother!”
All raised their glasses, and Marco repeated, “To the health of my—” but a sob of joy choked him, and, setting the glass on the table, he flung himself on the old man's neck.
At daybreak on the following morning he set out for Cordova, ardent and smiling, filled with thoughts of happiness. But there is no cheerfulness that rules
