Aunt Jane's Nieces Abroad
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. But I must go now, instead of chattering here. Farewell,
signorini, until to-morrow."
"Will you not remain with us?"
"Oh, no; although you are kind. I am expected home. But to-morrow I will
come for the money. You will be silent?"
"Surely, Tato."
The child smiled upon them pleasantly. It was a relief to deal with two
tender girls instead of cold and resentful men, such as she had
sometimes met. At the door she blew a kiss to them, and darted away.
In the courtyard Frascatti saw her gliding out and discreetly turned his
head the other way.
Tato took the old road, circling around the theatre and through the
narrow, winding streets of the lower town to the Catania Gate. She
looked back one or twice, but no one noticed her. If any of the
villagers saw her approaching they slipped out of her path.
Once on the highway, however, Tato became lost in reflection. Her
mission being successfully accomplished, it required no further thought;
but the sweet young American girls had made a strong impression upon the
lonely Sicilian maid, and she dreamed of their pretty gowns and ribbons,
their fresh and comely faces, and the gentleness of their demeanor.
Tato was not gentle. She was wild and free and boyish, and had no pretty
gowns whatever. But what then? She must help her father to get his
fortune, and then he had promised her that some day they would go to
Paris or Cairo and live in the world, and be brigands no longer.
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There was once an honest journeyman tailor, by name Labakan, who learned his trade with an excellent master in Alexandria. It could not be said that Labakan was unhandy with the needle; on the contrary, he could make excellent work: moreover, one would have done him injustice to have called him lazy. Nevertheless, his companions knew not what to make of him, for he would often sew for hours together so rapidly that the needle would glow in his hand, and the thread smoke, and that none could equal him.
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