that a right thing to tell them?"

"Yes. You may always say it if you are asked. There are poor fellows
enough who write a thousand different things which bring them little
money. There is nothing strange in my being a writer."

So Loristan answered him, and from that time if, by any chance, his
father's means of livelihood were inquired into, it was simple enough
and true enough to say that he wrote to earn his bread.

In the first days of strangeness to a new place, Marco often walked a
great deal. He was strong and untiring, and it amused him to wander
through unknown streets, and look at shops, and houses, and people.
He did not confine himself to the great thoroughfares, but liked to
branch off into the side streets and odd, deserted-looking squares, and
even courts and alleyways. He often stopped to watch workmen and talk to
them if they were friendly. In this way he made stray acquaintances in
his strollings, and learned a good many things. He had a fondness for
wandering musicians, and, from an old Italian who had in his youth been
a singer in opera, he had learned to sing a number of songs in his
strong, musical boy-voice. He knew well many of the songs of the people
in several countries.

It was very dull this first morning, and he wished that he had something
to do or some one to speak to. To do nothing whatever is a depressing
thing at all times, but perhaps it is more especially so when one is a
big, healthy boy twelve years old. London as he saw it in the Marylebone
Road seemed to him a hideous place. It was murky and shabby-looking, and
full of dreary-faced people. It was not the first time he had seen the
same things, and they always made him feel that he wished he had