"Well, you are a good one to travel," cried the man, still laughing. "Have you any notion how far it is, and that a little musician like you could wear out his two feet, and his soles, too, before he could catch sight of a single drop of the water of the Lake of Garda? Who sends you down there?" "Nobody. I go of my own accord." "Well, I never have seen the like of you before," said the man, still laughing good-naturedly. "Where, then, is your home, my boy?" "I do not know exactly. It may be on the Lake of Garda," was the serious answer. "What sort of reply is that?" So saying, the coachman looked with some curiosity at the little figure before him, which certainly did not betray any signs of being neglected. On the contrary, the head, with its black curly hair, and the nice Sunday suit of clothes, gave the lad a very genteel appearance; and his delicate features and earnest eyes bore unmistakable evidence to something noble in his character, and any one who looked at him once was certain to repeat the glance with pleasure. Such was also the case with the driver. He gazed steadfastly at Rico, and presently said, kindly, "You carry your passport in your face, my boy; and it is not a bad one either, even if you do not know where you belong. What will you give me now, if I will carry you along with me down yonder, on the box?" Rico stared, for he could scarcely believe his ears at these words. To sit on that high post-wagon, and drive down into the valley! Such luck could never, never be his; of that he was sure. Besides, what had he to give the coachman in exchange? "I have only my fiddle in the world, and I cannot give that away," he said sadly, after thinking a while. "Well, I should not know what to do with that box," laughed the driver "Come along. We will get up there, and you may play me a little music." Rico could not trust his ears; but, sure enough, the coachman pushed him up over the wheel to the top of the coach, climbing up after him. The passengers had all taken their places, the doors were closed, and away they rolled down the road.--the well-known road over which Rico had so often longingly gazed, wishing that he could travel it. Now his wish was realized. High up between heaven and earth he seemed to be flying, and could not believe that he was not in a dream. The coachman was revolving in his own mind the question of the boy's belongings. "Just tell me, now, you little travelling bundle, where your father lives." He asked this after having cracked his whip many times in succession as loud as he could. "He is dead." "Oh, dear! Well, where is your mother, then?" "She is dead, too." "Well, there is always a grandfather and a grandmother, or something. Where are yours?" "All dead." "At any rate, everybody has some brothers or sisters; where are yours, I should like to know?" "All are dead," was the sorrowfully repeated answer.