of the crowd of neighbors, Rico stood by the bedside speechless,
motionless, and gazed at his father. All through the week the house
was filled with people who wished to look at the man, and hear from
the cousin how it had all happened; so that the lad heard it repeated
over and over, that his father had been at work down in St. Gall on
the railroad.

He had received a deep wound on the head when they were blasting a rock;
and, as he could not work any longer, he wished to go home to take care
of himself until the wound was healed. But the long journey--sometimes
on foot, sometimes in an open wagon--was too much for him; and when he
had reached his home on Sunday, towards evening, he he had lain down on
the bed never to rise again. Without any one knowing it, he had passed
away; for he was already stiff when Rico had found him. On the following
Sunday the burial took place. Rico was the only mourner to follow the
coffin. Several kind neighbors joined in, and thus the little procession
went on to Sils. In the church, Rico heard the pastor when he read out,
"The deceased was called Henrico Trevillo, and was a native of Peschiera
on the Lake of Garda."

These words brought the feeling to Rico that he had heard something that
he knew perfectly well before, and yet could not recollect. He had
always seen a picture of the lake before his eyes when he had sung,--

"One evening
In Peschiera,"

with his father, but he had never known the reason. He repeated the name
softly to himself, while one old song after another arose in his memory.