Phil,
however, was an exception, and could manage to speak English a
little, though not as well as he could understand it.
"What for I go?" he asked, a little distrustfully.
"My young master wants to hear you play on your fiddle," said the
servant. "He's sick, and can't come out."
"All right!" said Phil, using one of the first English phrases
he had caught. "I will go."
"Come along, then."
Phil followed his guide into the basement, thence up two flight
of stairs, and along a handsome hall into a chamber. The little
fiddler, who had never before been invited into a fine house,
looked with admiration at the handsome furniture, and especially
at the pictures upon the wall, for, like most of his nation, he
had a love for whatever was beautiful, whether in nature or art.
The chamber had two occupants. One, a boy of twelve years, was
lying in a bed, propped up by pillows. His thin, pale face spoke
of long sickness, and contrasted vividly with the brilliant brown
face of the little Italian boy, who seemed the perfect picture of
health. Sitting beside the bed was a lady of middle age and
pleasant expression. It was easy to see by the resemblance that
she was the mother of the sick boy.
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