But there was a small round hole in the stone wall at the back of her yard, and her greatest pleasure was to look through that into her neighbor’s garden.  When she stood on a stone, and put her eyes close to the hole, she could see the green grass in the garden, smell the sweet flowers, and even hear the water plashing into the fountain.  She had never seen any one walking in the garden, for it belonged to an old gentleman who did not care about grass and flowers.

One day in the autumn her mother told her that the old gentleman had gone away, and had rented his house to a family of little American children, who had come with their sick mother to spend the winter in Italy.  After this, Piccola was never lonely, for all day long the children ran and played and danced and sang in the garden.  It was several weeks before they saw her at all, and I am not sure they would ever have done so but that one day the kitten ran away, and in chasing her they came close to the wall, and saw Piccola’s black eyes looking through the hole in the stones.  They were a little frightened at first, and did not speak to her; but the next day she was there again, and Rose, the oldest girl, went up to the wall and talked to her a little while.  When the children found that she had no one to play with and was very lonely, they talked to her every day, and often brought her fruits and candies, and passed them through the hole in the wall.

One day they even pushed the kitten through; but the hole was hardly large enough for her, and she mewed and scratched, and was very much frightened.  After that the little boy said he should ask his father if the hole might not be made larger, and then Piccola could come in and play with them.  The father had found out that Piccola’s mother was a good woman, and that the little girl herself was sweet and kind, so that he was very glad to have some of the stones broken away, and an opening made for Piccola to come in.

How excited she was, and how glad the children were when she first stepped into the garden!  She wore her best dress, a long bright-colored woolen skirt and a white waist.  Round her neck was a string of beads, and on her feet were little wooden shoes.  It would seem very strange to us—­would it not?—­to wear wooden shoes; but Piccola and her mother had never worn anything else, and never had any money to buy stockings.  Piccola almost always ran about barefooted, like the kittens and the chickens and the little ducks.  What a good time they had that day, and how glad Piccola’s mother was that her little girl could have such a pleasant, safe place to play in, while she was away at work!

By and by December came, and the little Americans began to talk about Christmas.  One day, when Piccola’s curly head and bright eyes came peeping through the hole in the wall, they ran to her and helped her in; and as they did so, they all asked her at once what she thought she would have for a Christmas present.  “A Christmas present!” said Piccola.  “Why, what is that?”