was in a gracious mood; and gave some of the best morsels to Angelo.

Well, youngster; so you have dried your tears? You find that I am not going to eat you. If you are only a good lad, and do all I tell I you, will make a man of you; but it must be all I bid you, mind that.”

"Yes, I will try," said Angelo, meekly.

They resumed their journey up the mountain; the way grew steeper and rougher; sometimes the path was so narrow and broken, that it seemed as though they must fall down into the valley beneath, where the river could scarcely be seen, and where the tall pine trees were growing so far down below, that they looked no larger than gooseberry-bushes. The asses were very surefooted, however; and Paul trod as firmly as a wild goat. Soon afterwards a white mist, which had been long following them, overtook them, and began to descend in the shape of a small, thick rain; the air became like ground glass, and Angelo could not see over the ears of the donkey. The rain soon penetrated through his scanty

clothing; and the air was bitterly raw and cold. He began to cry, but very softly to himself; he begged the Angel to make him warm and comfortable; but instead of that everything grew colder and darker every moment.

Paul appeared to feel a surly kind of compassion for the child, and threw a coarse sack over his shoulders.

"Come, there is a village hereabouts, where we will stop for the night, and there will be a fire, where you may warm yourself—we shall be there in a few minutes."

He laid hold of the ass's bridle as he spoke, and led the one upon which Angelo was seated down a steep descent that branched away from the road they were travelling, and after a few moments they arrived at a small village, or rather a few huts, which stood in the hollow of a steep mountain.

A hideous old woman, whose throat hung down like a bag, was just coming out of her door.

"Can you give us a night's lodging, goody?" asked Paul.

So she bade them to enter; but Angelo was so

stiffened with cold and fatigue, that he could not walk when lifted from the pannier. The old woman was very compassionate; she took off his wet clothes and put him to bed, and gave him some bread and milk. He was too tired to speak, but he just recollected his prayers, and muttered to himself Please, God, do not let Babbette cry, and make me a good boy," then he fell asleep.

The next morning he was very stiff and sore, but he got up when Paul told him. Doing as he was bid was the one thing that the poor child knew to be right, and he did it. The old woman had dried his clothes, and upon going away she put a piece of honey-comb into his hand; it was the first time Angelo had tasted honey.

All that day Paul was surly, and when he spoke to Angelo, it was in a brutal manner. Towards evening they struck up a steep narrow path to the left, that brought them to a village on the ledge of a rock. It consisted of a few miserable houses, built of blocks of stone, or rather of the rocks that lay piled in all directions, as though some great mountain had been shivered to pieces.

The houses were rudely put together, without any cement; there were no windows, long spaces were left for air and light. Some of the cottages were without doors. The men looked something like Paul. The women were dirty, and many of them had the same kind of hideous swelling as the old woman. The children were playing about, and looked like beggars. Everybody came out to see them.

Why, Paul," cried one man to him, “you have another boy. Whence did he come from? Who let you have his child?"

"He is nobody's child," growled Paul, "my brother gave him to me; and what have you to say against it?"

"Oh, nothing; there will be no one to ask questions, if there should be another accident. All the boys you bring here to work for you, meet with accidents."

Paul made no reply, but glanced fiercely on the speaker, and quickened his steps towards a hut that looked a degree more ruinous than any of the It had a door, but it was half off its hinges.

rest.