"
"Yes, you can go in. Tell him he must get up to-morrow. The
padrone will not let him spend his time in idleness."
So Phil, having already his fiddle under his arm, entered the
room where Giacomo lay. The other occupants of the room had
risen, and the little boy was lying on a hard pallet in the
corner. His eyes lighted up with joy as he saw Phil enter.
"I am glad it is you, Filippo," he said; "I thought it was the
padrone, come to make me get up."
"How do you feel this morning, Giacomo?"
"I do not feel well, Filippo. My back is sore, and I am so
weak."
His eyes were very bright with the fever that had now control,
and his cheeks were hot and flushed. Phil put his hand upon
them.
"Your cheeks are very hot, Giacomo," he said. "You are going to
be sick."
"I know it, Filippo," said the little boy. "I may be very sick."
"I hope not, Giacomo."
"Lean over, Filippo," said Giacomo. "I want to tell you
something."
Phil leaned over until his ear was close to the mouth of his
little comrade.
"I think I am going to die, Filippo," whispered Giacomo.
Phil started in dismay.
"No, no, Giacomo," he said; "that is nonsense. You will live a
great many years.
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