The little girl had been taken to London, the year before, by a widowed aunt, who was very fond of her, and to whom her parents poor people had given her for a time, trusting in the promise of an inheritance. But the aunt had died a few months later, run over by an omnibus, without leaving a centesimo; and then she too had had recourse to the consul, who had shipped her to Italy. Both had been recommended to the care of the Italian sailor.
“So,” concluded the little maid, “my father and mother thought that I would return rich, and instead I am returning poor. But they will love me all the same. And so will my brothers. I have four, all small. I am the oldest at home. I dress them. They will be glad to see me. I will come in on tip-toe the sea is ugly!”
Then she asked the boy: “And are you going to stay with your relatives?”
“Yes if they want me.”
“Do they not love you?”
“I don't know.”
“I shall be thirteen at Christmas,” said the girl.
Then they began to talk about the sea, and the people on board around them. They remained near each other all day, exchanging a few words now and then. The passengers thought them brother and sister. The girl knitted at a stocking, the boy meditated, the sea continued to grow rougher. At night, as they parted, the girl said to Mario, “Sleep well.”
“No one will sleep well, my poor children!” exclaimed the Italian sailor as he ran past, in answer to a call from the captain. The boy was on the point of
