On that Sunday evening, Rico seated himself on the chair in his gloomy bedroom. There he to stay until his cousin had gone to bed.  
After Stineli had made the discovery that Rico could go with his down to the much-wished-for lake, the enterprise seemed a very simple thing to the lad,—so easy, that he only thought of the best way to get off. He had a that his cousin would probably try to hinder him from going, although he felt sure that she would not miss him after he was away.
 
So, when she began to scold him when he came home, he said to himself, "I will be off as soon as she is once in her bed."
 
He had very pleasant thoughts as he sat there in the dark,—of how nice it would be not to hear the scolding voice of his cousin all day long, and of what big bushels of the red flowers he would bring back to Stineli when he returned. And then the picture of the sunny shores of the lake and the purple hills rose before his mind, and he fell asleep. He was not in a very comfortable position, for he had never let his fiddle leave his hand; and he soon awoke again, but it was still dark.
 
Now he had a clear idea of what he would do. He had his Sunday clothes on, which was good; and his cap was also on his head. He took his fiddle under his arm, and went softly down the steps, slipped the bolt aside, and stole out into the cool air of morning.
 
The dawn was just showing over the mountains, and in Sils the cocks were crowing. Off he walked briskly, to get well away from the houses and to reach the highway. When he once was on the road, he went along merrily; for he felt quite at home there, he had so often traversed the ground with his father. He could form no idea of how far it really was to the Maloja; and indeed it seemed very long to him, after he had been going for two good hours. Little by little it grew brighter, however; and in about an hour more, when he reached the place before the upon the Maloja, where he used to stand with his father and gaze down the mountain road, the sunny light of morning lay upon the mountains, and the tips of the fir-trees were all touched with gold.
 
Rico seated himself upon the edge of the roadside. He was very tired, and remembered suddenly that he had not eaten any thing since the noonday meal of the day before. But he was not discouraged, for now the way was all down hill; and, after that, he should reach the lake.
 
While he sat there, the big post-wagon came along. He had often seen it as it came through Sils, and always thought that the very greatest happiness upon earth must be experienced by the driver, who sat all day long on the box, and controlled his four horses with his whip. Now he saw this happy creature nearer; for the post-wagon stopped, and the lad never once removed his eyes from the wonderful man, as he came down from his , stepped into the inn, and came out again with an enormous piece of black bread in his hand, upon which lay a large piece of cheese.
 
Next, the driver drew out a strong knife, cut a good big bit of bread, and gave each horse a mouthful in turn, not forgetting himself in the meantime; but upon his own piece of bread he put an equally big of cheese. As they all stood there, eating in happy companionship, the man looked about a little, and presently called out, "Hulloa, little musician! won't you join us too? Come hither."
 
Now when Rico saw them all eating, he realized how very hungry he was. He most gladly accepted the invitation, and approached the driver, who cut such a big slice of bread and also of cheese to give the lad, that Rico did not really know how he should manage to eat it.
 
He was obliged to put his fiddle down on the ground; and the coachman looked on very complaisantly while the boy ate his breakfast, and said, while he followed his own occupation,—
 
"You are a very small fiddler. Do you know how to play something?"
 
"Oh, yes! two songs, besides those I learned from my father," replied Rico.
 
"Really! And where are you going to on your two little legs?" said the driver. "To Peschiera, on the Lake of Garda," was the serious answer.
 
At these words, the coachman burst into such laughter that the boy gazed up at him in great .
 
"Well, you are a good one to travel," cried the man, still laughing. "Have you any notion how far it is, and that a little musician like you could wear out his two feet, and his soles, too, before he could catch sight of a single drop of the water of the Lake of Garda? Who sends you down there?"
 
"Nobody. I go of my own accord."
 
"Well, I never have seen the like of you before," said the man, still laughing good-naturedly. "Where, then, is your home, my boy?"
 
"I do not know exactly. It may be on the Lake of Garda," was the serious answer.
 
"What sort of reply is that?"
 
So saying, the coachman looked with some curiosity at the little figure before him, which certainly did not betray any signs of being neglected. On the contrary, the head, with its black curly hair, and the nice Sunday suit of clothes, gave the lad a very genteel appearance; and his delicate features and earnest eyes bore unmistakable evidence to something noble in his character, and any one who looked at him once was certain to repeat the glance with pleasure.
 
Such was also the case with the driver. He gazed at Rico, and presently said, , "You carry your passport in your face, my boy; and it is not a bad one either, even if you do not know where you belong. What will you give me now, if I will carry you along with me down yonder, on the box?"
 
Rico stared, for he could scarcely believe his ears at these words. To 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 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 in his own mind the question of the boy's .
 
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