knock, there was a rustling among the bushes, and some one poked his nose out.
Sure enough, of all unexpected things, it was the little black dog who took care of the blind man on the bridge!
“Well, here’s a fine finish to your sight-seeing!” he exclaimed. “Didn’t I tell you you'd do better to stay with me? It’s a good thing I was listening at the door, or you might have stayed here till morning. But my cottage is not far off, and there’s still a bit of fire to warm yourselves by!”
“Do you live here?” cried Poor Cecco and Bulka at once.
“Indeed I don’t,” returned the little dog. “There’s a nasty old woman lives here, and she’d soon send you chasing with a broom if you go near her door after dusk! But follow me, and I’ll take you where you’ll be warm and dry.”
So they squeezed through the palings again, the little black dog leading the way, and followed him—trot—trot—along the path, till he turned in by a clump of currant bushes, and there was the door of his cottage, with a fine beam of light shining out through the crack underneath.
The little dog barked twice, and the blind man let him in. To be sure he grumbled, but that was at the little black dog, because he had been obliged to open the door for him twice already that evening, and each time the
