The little boy who trotted barefoot along by the
side of his father had a sweet, serious little face, but
he looked tired and hungry, and scarcely fit for such
a long rough walk. They had started from their
home at Castello delle Pieve very early that morning,
and the piece of black bread which had served
them for breakfast had been but small. Away in
front stretched that long, white, never-ending road;
and the little dusty feet that pattered so bravely
along had to take hurried runs now and again to
keep up with the long strides of the man, while the
wistful eyes, which were fixed on that distant town,
seemed to wonder if they would really ever reach
their journey's end.

`Art tired already, Pietro?' asked the father at
length, hearing a panting little sigh at his side.
`Why, we are not yet half-way there! Thou must
step bravely out and be a man, for to-day thou shalt
begin to work for thy living, and no longer live the
life of an idle child.'

The boy squared his shoulders, and his eyes shone.

`It is not I who am tired, my father,' he said.
`It is only that my legs cannot take such good long
steps as thine; and walk as we will the road ever
seems to unwind itself further and further in front,
like the magic white thread which has no end.'