Tato paused, hesitatingly.
"Oh, I'll go a little farther," said Patsy, promptly. "No one will
notice two girls, you know. Shall I carry your parcel for a time?"
"No," replied the child, hugging it close with her disengaged arm. But
she offered no objection when Patsy continued to walk by her side.
"Have you any brothers or sisters, Tato?"
"No, signorina."
"Have you a mother?"
"No, signorina. My father and I are alone."
"I know him well, Tato. We were on the ship together, crossing the
ocean. He was gruff and disagreeable, but I made him talk to me and
smile."
"I know; he has told me of the Signorina Patsy. He is fond of you."
"Yet he robbed my uncle."
The child flushed, and drew away her arm.
"That is it. That is why you should hate me," she replied, bitterly. "I
know it is robbery, and brigandage, although my father masks it by
saying he sells antiques. Until now I have seen nothing wrong in this
life, signorina; but you have made me ashamed."
"Why, dear?"
"Because you are so good and gentle, and so forgiving."
Patsy laughed.
"In reality, Tato, I am resentful and unforgiving. You will find out,
soon, that I am a very human girl, and then I will not make you ashamed.
But your father's business is shameful, nevertheless."
Tato was plainly puzzled, and knew not what to reply.
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