sit on that high post-wagon, and drive down into the valley! Such luck
could never, never be his; of that he was sure. Besides, what had he to
give the coachman in exchange?

"I have only my fiddle in the world, and I cannot give that away," he
said sadly, after thinking a while.

"Well, I should not know what to do with that box," laughed the driver
"Come along. We will get up there, and you may play me a little music."

Rico could not trust his ears; but, sure enough, the coachman pushed him
up over the wheel to the top of the coach, climbing up after him. The
passengers had all taken their places, the doors were closed, and away
they rolled down the road.--the well-known road over which Rico had so
often longingly gazed, wishing that he could travel it.

Now his wish was realized. High up between heaven and earth he seemed to
be flying, and could not believe that he was not in a dream.

The coachman was revolving in his own mind the question of the boy's
belongings.

"Just tell me, now, you little travelling bundle, where your
father lives."

He asked this after having cracked his whip many times in succession as
loud as he could.

"He is dead."