“Well, little one,” said the lawyer, pleasantly, “We have secured the money required to enable Mr. Merrick to purchase the ring, and Mr.—­er—­Count Ferralti to buy his bracelet.  Will you count it?”

“Yes, signore, if you please,” replied Tato, with a sober face.

Mr. Watson drew out two packages of bank notes and placed them upon the table.  The child, realizing the importance of the occasion, carefully counted each bundle, and then replaced the wrappers.

“The amounts are correct, signore,” she said.  “I thank you for making my task so easy.  And now I will go.”

The lawyer brought a newspaper and wrapped the money in it once again.

“It is always dangerous to carry so much money,” said he; “but now no one will be likely to suspect the contents of your package.”

Tato smiled.

“No one would care to molest me,” she said; “for they fear those that protect me.  Good afternoon, signore.  Your friends will be with you in time to dine in your company.  Good afternoon, signorini,” turning to Patsy and Louise.

“I’ll walk a little way with you; may I?” asked Patsy, smiling into Tato’s splendid eyes.

“To be sure, signorina,” was the quick response.

Patricia caught up a sunshade and followed the child out at the side entrance, which was little used.  Tato took the way along the old road, and Patsy walked beside her, chatting brightly of the catacombs, the Norman villa that showed its checkered tower above the trees and the ancient wall that still hemmed in the little village.

“I love Taormina,” she said, earnestly, “and shall be sorry to leave it.  You must be very happy, Tato, to be able to live here always.”

“It is my birthplace,” she said; “but I long to get away from it and see other countries.  The view is fine, they say; but it tires me.  The air is sweet and pure; but it oppresses me.  The climate is glorious; but I have had enough of it.  In other places there is novelty, and many things that Sicily knows nothing of.”

“That is true,” replied Patsy, tucking the little one’s arm underneath her own, with a sympathetic gesture.  “I know just how you feel, Tato.  You must come to America some day, and visit me.  I will make you very welcome, dear, and you shall be my friend.”

The child looked into her face earnestly.

“You do not hate me, signorina, because—­because—­”

“Because why?”

“Because my errand to you has been so lawless and—­and—­unfriendly?”

“Ah, Tato, you do not choose this life, do you?”

“No, signorina.”

“It is forced on you by circumstances, is it not?”

“Truly, signorina.”

“I know.  You would not long so wistfully to change your condition if you enjoyed being a little brigand.  But nothing that has passed must interfere with our friendship, dear.  If I were in your place, you see, I would do just as you have done.  It is not a very honest life, Tato, nor one to be proud of; but I’m not going to blame you one bit.”