Instead of going on to the little plateau where she left her pails, she
branched off to the left. It was hard climbing, and after repeated
shouts of "Beppi," she sat down and tried to think.

Big drops of rain were beginning to fall, and with the sun out of sight
the fall air was damp and cold. She pulled her thin shawl around her
shoulders and shivered.

"If Garibaldi ran away she came up here; she always does," she argued
to herself. "She loves to climb, and she must have come this way in
the hope of finding grass. Up above, and a little over to the left,
there is a sort of sheltered spot. Perhaps--" she did not finish the
thought, but jumped up and started to climb.

She hunted until she discovered a way to find the spot. It was not
difficult, for she knew every foot of the mountains from long
association. But Beppi was not to be seen, nor was Garibaldi. Lucia
stopped, discouraged. Fear and helplessness were getting the better of
her, and she would most likely have given way to the tears she so
despised had her eye not caught sight of a tuft of fur on the ground.
She seized upon it eagerly. It was without doubt part of Garibaldi's
shaggy coat.

With a cry of joy she started off up the tiny trail that led higher up
into the rocks.

"Beppi, Beppi!" she called, and stopped. Still no answer, but she was
not discouraged for the guns were making so much noise that she
realized her voice could not carry any great distance.