I do not
wish him to be injured."
"Nor do we, Tato."
"And the young man is not a coward, either. He has been kind to me. But
he is sad, and not so pleasant to talk with as the uncle."
"True enough, Tato," said Beth.
Patsy had been examining the child with curious intentness. The little
one was so lovely and graceful, and her voice sounded so soft and
womanly, that Patsy longed to take her in her arms and hug her.
"How old are you, dear?" she asked.
Tato saw the friendly look, and answered with a smile.
"Perhaps as old as you, signorina, although I am so much smaller. I
shall be fifteen in a month."
"So old!"
Tato laughed merrily.
"Ah, you might well say 'so young,' amico mia! To be grown up is much
nicer; do you not think so? And then I shall not look such a baby as
now, and have people scold me when I get in the way, as they do little
bambini."
"But when you are grown you cannot wear boys' clothing, either."
Tato sighed.
"We have a saying in Sicily that 'each year has its sunshine and rain,'
which means its sorrow and its joy," she answered. "Perhaps I sometimes
think more of the tears than of the laughter, although I know that is
wrong. Not always shall I be a mountaineer, and then the soft dresses of
the young girls shall be my portion. Will I like them better? I do not
know.
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