Menotti had to stop, for she could not tell him all her story. She
remembered what Stineli had said to her the evening before about Rico.
She was so full of her own thoughts at that time, that she did not
fairly take in the import of her words. Now she began to wonder about
it, the more she thought it over.
"Do tell me, Rico," she said, "were you ever here earlier?--I mean
before; or what made you want to see the lake again, as Stineli told me
was the case yesterday?"
"Yes; when I was little," said the lad. "Then I went away."
"How did you get here when you were little, Rico?"
"I was born here."
"What! here? What was your father, if he came here from the
mountains yonder?"
"He did not come here from the mountains; only my mother did."
"Do I hear aright, Rico? Was your father born here?"
"Certainly. He was a native of this place."
"You never told me this before. This is wonderful. You have not a name
like the people here. What was your father's name?"
"What was his name? It was Henrico Trevillo."
Mrs. Menotti sprang up from the seat as if she had had a shock.
"What did you say, Rico?" she cried out. "What did you say just now?
Tell me again."
"I told you my father's name."
Mrs. Menotti was not listening: she ran towards the door.
"Stineli, bring me a kerchief," she cried. "I must go to the priest at
once: I am trembling all over.
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