And it was through these excursion parties that Piccino’s market value was discovered. When he was a baby and his sister Maria, who was his small nurse—being determined not to be left behind by her comrades—toiled after the rest of the children with her little burden in her arms or over her shoulder, it was observed that the _forestieri_ always saw the pretty round black baby head and big soft dark eyes before they saw anything else, and their attention once attracted by Piccino very pleasant things were often the result. The whole party got more cakes and sandwiches and legs of chickens and backs of little birds, and when bits of silver were given to Maria for Piccino, Maria herself sometimes even had whole francs given to her, because it was she who was his sister and took care of him. And then, having begun giving, the good-natured ones among the party of ladies and gentlemen did not like to quite neglect the other children, and so scattered _soldi_ among them, so that sometimes they all returned to Ceriani feeling that they had done a good day’s work. Their idea of a good day’s work was one when they had not run after carriages for nothing, or had heads shaken at them when they held out their hands and called imploringly, “_Uno soldino, bella signora—bella signora!_” Piccino had been born one of the class which in its childhood and often even later never fails in the belief that the English and Americans who come to the beautiful Riviera come there to be begged from, or in some way beguiled out of their small coin. Maria was a sharp child. She had not lugged her little brothers and sisters about all through the working time of her twelve years without learning a few things. She very soon found out what it was that brought in the _soldi_ and the nice scraps from the hampers. “It is Piccino they give things to—_ecco_!” she said. “They see his eyes and they want to look at him and touch his cheeks. They like to see the dimples come when he laughs. They would not look at me like that, or at you, Carmela. They would not come near us.” This was quite true. The row of little spectators watching the picnics might be picturesque, but it was exceedingly dirty, and not made up of the material it is quite safe to come near. It was a belief current among the parties who drove up from San Remo that soap had never been heard of in the vicinity of Ceriani and that water was avoided as a poisonous element, and this belief was not founded upon mere nothings. “They are as dirty as they are cheerful and impudent,” some one had said, “and that is saying a great deal. I wonder what would happen if one of them were caught and washed all over.”