Phil
shook the sleeping form of Giacomo. The little boy stirred in
his sleep, and murmured, "Madre." He had been dreaming of his
mother and his far-off Italian home. He woke to the harsh
realities of life, four thousand miles away from that mother and
home.
"Have I slept, Filippo?" he asked, rubbing his eyes, and looking
about him in momentary bewilderment.
"Yes, Giacomo. You have slept for two hours and more. It is
eleven o'clock."
"Then we must go back."
"Yes; take your violin, and we will go."
They passed out into the cold street, which seemed yet colder by
contrast with the warm hotel they just left, and, crossing to the
sidewalk that skirts the park, walked up Centre street.
Giacomo was seized with a fit of trembling. His teeth chattered
with the cold. A fever was approaching, although neither he nor
his companion knew it.
"Are you cold, Giacomo?" asked Phil, noticing how he trembled.
"I am very cold. I feel sick, Filippo."
"You will feel better to-morrow," said Phil; but the thought of
the beating which his little comrade was sure to receive saddened
him more than the prospect of being treated in the same way
himself.
Pages:
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91