os Artes_. He chanced to have
stopped an Italian workingman. The latter surveyed him with curiosity,
and inquired if he knew how to read. The lad nodded, "Yes."

"Well, then," said the laborer, pointing to the street from which he had
just emerged, "keep straight on through there, reading the names of all
the streets on the corners; you will end by finding the one you want."

The boy thanked him, and turned into the street which opened before him.

It was a straight and endless but narrow street, bordered by low white
houses, which looked like so many little villas, filled with people,
with carriages, with carts which made a deafening noise; here and there
floated enormous banners of various hues, with announcements as to the
departure of steamers for strange cities inscribed upon them in large
letters. At every little distance along the street, on the right and
left, he perceived two other streets which ran straight away as far as
he could see, also bordered by low white houses, filled with people and
vehicles, and bounded at their extremity by the level line of the
measureless plains of America, like the horizon at sea. The city seemed
infinite to him; it seemed to him that he might wander for days or
weeks, seeing other streets like these, on one hand and on the other,
and that all America must be covered with them. He looked attentively at
the names of the streets: strange names which cost him an effort to
read. At every fresh street, he felt his heart beat, at the thought that
it was the one he was in search of. He stared at all the women, with the
thought that he might meet his mother. He caught sight of one in front
of him who made his blood leap; he overtook her: she was a negro. And
accelerating his pace, he walked on and on. On arriving at the
cross-street, he read, and stood as though rooted to the sidewalk. It
was the street _del los Artes_. He turned into it, and saw the number
117; his cousin's shop was No. 175. He quickened his pace still more,
and almost ran; at No. 171 he had to pause to regain his breath. And he
said to himself, "O my mother! my mother! It is really true that I shall
see you in another moment!" He ran on; he arrived at a little
haberdasher's shop. This was it. He stepped up close to it. He saw a
woman with gray hair and spectacles.

"What do you want, boy?" she asked him in Spanish.

"Is not this," said the boy, making an effort to utter a sound, "the
shop of Francesco Merelli?"