The Arkansaw traveler., 1885-08-15
LITTLE COUNT ITS "A.
CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER l.
 It was an old, old house, and it stood on the hillside five miles out of that great city which was the mother of the world It was SO old and so gray, and so shut in by the gnarled olive trees, and the high hedges and tangles of wild roses and thickets of arbutus, that it was well-nigh forgotten place. The paths that led to it were too steep for horses, and the grea, gates, with their broken sculptures and carved shields, were rarely opened. The whole place had fallen into decay like the race who owned it, and now, in the sultry, sickly heat of the summer, it seemed given over to silence and isola- ton.
 There was not breath of air to be felt. The grasses were burnt and dry the very trees looked parched. The old broken walls and the stone of the fountain in the courtyard were like hot iron to the touch.
 The cicali chirped the black, restless bees brzzed here and there; gorgeous winged butterflies futtered lszily in the sunlight; but beyond and besides these, there seemed DO other sign of life or motion anywhere.
 Suddenly figure appeared it fitted like shadow through the wide, open porch, and moved across the courtyard It was a small childish figure, clad only in some loose white linen garment-the figure of little lad with pale, wistful face and dark, pathetic eyes, that looked out from an auburn tangle of locks.
 Closely following him came another hgure-dark, stern and sombre-the fig- nf IM lasA kse the boys head.
 ~ will return an hour after sunset" he said "keep up good heart. Even if it is heavens will to take thy grandfather, thou hast home and friends lef;. The church will be thy parent"
 Something like a mutnous flash shot from the little lads dark eyes. He moved his head restlessly aside from the hand that rested on it.
 Do you think my grandfather will die?' he asked wonderingly 7" die like old Carlo and Antonio?"
 fear so," answered the priest. "The fever has him hard and sure. Besides, he IS old, and he lacks strength to do battle with this insidious foe. You are not frightened to remain here, are you :? If SO, l will take you with me now"
 The little lad shrAnk away.
 "No-oh, no," be said quickly; <" am not frightened, Padre PAolo, and could not leave my grandfather"
 "Very we'll. will return as told you . Keep up good heart, and remember thy Holy Mother is with thee. Thou hast naught to fear"
 The old gate swuAg back on its hinges. The child went back over the hot stones with the sun yet beating on his uncov- cred head, and throwing into stronger re- lief the beautiful profile that was like cameo.
 He was lovely little fellow, but fragile of form, and with face too pale and wistful for his years.
 If he diesp' he said half aloud, and then went swiftly up the broad, bare stairs and entered a room that was spa cious indeed, but dreary and comfortless, and given over to the same decay and neglect that spoke everywhere of the ruined fortunes of an ancient race-a race whose oAly representatives now were an old, dying man and his little ten.year- old grandchild.
 This child it was who crept up now to the bed, with its tarnished hanRings of moth-eaten tapestry, and looked with sad and wondering eyes at the silent figure lying there.
 Grandfather" he said timidly.
 There was no response. A bare brown hand moved restlessly on the coverlet- that was all.
 The child bent closer to the dying man.
 "Grandather," he said, "can't you speak-can't you say if am to go te the priest's3 don't want to go, grandfather lwould rather you took me with you."
 The gray, lined tace quivered with mo- mentary emotion. The lips parted.
 Do not be priest" they mutered. :.You are the last of us-we were great once"
 "And will be great, too !" cried the boy eagerly. "You will know, grand father, even there in Paradise-will you not ?-and you will tell my mother, and say have thought of her SO often and l will remember all your stories about her, and try to do whatis right and brave just as she would have wished me. But, oh, dear grandfather, must you go2 l shall be so lonelyw
 The old man did not answer. He was too exhausted to speak. He was dying of the cruel fever that had come with the summer, devastating households of rich and poor-the outcome of the marshes and undrained lands of the wide Cam pagna. Death had been about his own household for many weeks. Only one old serving-woman and child had escaped from the scourge, and his own moments were numbered and he knew 1t.
 Slowly the time crept on, but the sic lence in that old, dark chamber was un- broken save for the faiAt breathing of the dying man or sob from the patient little watcher, who was growing frightened at his own loneliness.
 Suddenly the stiffness was broken by the sound of bells. The old man opened