The Eternal City. Sir Hall Caine

After a while a shiver passed along his spine, and then he became warm and felt sleepy. A church clock struck nine, and he started up with a guilty feeling, but his limbs were stiff and he sank back again, blew two or three breaths on to the squirrel inside his waistcoat, and fell into a doze. As he dropped off into unconsciousness he seemed to see the big, cheerless house, almost destitute of furniture, where he lived with thirty or forty other boys. They trooped in with their organs and accordions, counted out their coppers to a man with a clipped moustache, who was blowing whiffs of smoke from a long, black cigar, with a straw through it, and then sat down on forms to eat their plates of macaroni and cheese. The man was not in good temper to-night, and he was shouting at some who were coming in late and at others who were sharing their supper with the squirrels that nestled in their bosoms, or the monkeys, in red jacket and fez, that perched upon their shoulders. The boy was perfectly unconscious by this time, and the child within the house was singing away as if her little breast was a cage of song-birds.

      As the church clock struck nine a class of Italian lads in an upper room in Old Compton Street was breaking up for the night, and the teacher, looking out of the window, said:

      "While we have been telling the story of the great road to our country a snowstorm has come, and we shall have enough to do to find our road home."

      The lads laughed by way of answer, and cried: "Good-night, doctor."

      "Good-night, boys, and God bless you," said the teacher.

      He was an elderly man, with a noble forehead and a long beard. His face, a sad one, was lighted up by a feeble smile; his voice was soft, and his manner gentle. When the boys were gone he swung over his shoulders a black cloak with a red lining, and followed them into the street.

      He had not gone far into the snowy haze before he began to realise that his playful warning had not been amiss.

      "Well, well," he thought, "only a few steps, and yet so difficult to find."

      He found the right turnings at last, and coming to the porch of his house in Soho Square, he almost trod on a little black and white object lying huddled at the base of one of the pillars.

      "A boy," he thought, "sleeping out on a night like this! Come, come," he said severely, "this is wrong," and he shook the little fellow to waken him.

      The boy did not answer, but he began to mutter in a sleepy monotone, "Don't hit me, sir. It was snow. I'll not come home late again. Ninepence, sir, and Jinny is so cold."

      The man paused a moment, then turned to the door rang the bell sharply.

II

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      Half-an-hour later the little musician was lying on a couch in the doctor's surgery, a cheerful room with a fire and a soft lamp under a shade. He was still unconscious, but his damp clothes had been taken off and he was wrapped in blankets. The doctor sat at the boy's head and moistened his lips with brandy, while a good woman, with the face of a saint, knelt at the end of the couch and rubbed his little feet and legs. After a little while there was a perceptible quivering of the eyelids and twitching of the mouth.

      "He is coming to, mother," said the doctor.

      "At last," said his wife.

      The boy moaned and opened his eyes, the big helpless eyes of childhood, black as a sloe, and with long black lashes. He looked at the fire, the lamp, the carpet, the blankets, the figures at either end of the couch, and with a smothered cry he raised himself as though thinking to escape.

      "Carino!" said the doctor, smoothing the boy's curly hair. "Lie still a little longer."

      The voice was like a caress, and the boy sank back. But presently he raised himself again, and gazed around the room as if looking for something. The good mother understood him perfectly, and from a chair on which his clothes were lying she picked up his little grey squirrel. It was frozen stiff with the cold and now quite dead, but he grasped it tightly and kissed it passionately, while big teardrops rolled on to his cheeks.

      "Carino!" said the doctor again, taking the dead squirrel away, and after a while the boy lay quiet and was comforted.

      "Italiano—si?"

      "Si, Signore."

      "From which province?"

      "Campagna Romana, Signore."

      "Where does he say he comes from, doctor?"

      "From the country district outside Rome. And now you are living at Maccari's in Greek Street—isn't that so?"

      "Yes, sir."

      "How long have you been in England—one year, two years?"

      "Two years and a half, sir."

      "And what is your name, my son?"

      "David Leone."

      "A beautiful name, carino! David Le-o-ne," repeated the doctor, smoothing the curly hair.

      "A beautiful boy, too! What will you do with him, doctor?"

      "Keep him here to-night at all events, and to-morrow we'll see if some institution will not receive him. David Leone! Where have I heard that name before, I wonder? Your father is a farmer?"

      But the boy's face had clouded like a mirror that has been breathed upon, and he made no answer.

      "Isn't your father a farmer in the Campagna Romana, David?"

      "I have no father," said the boy.

      "Carino! But your mother is alive—yes?"

      "I have no mother."

      "Caro mio! Caro mio! You shall not go to the institution to-morrow, my son," said the doctor, and then the mirror cleared in a moment as if the sun had shone on it.

      "Listen, father!"

      Two little feet were drumming on the floor above.

      "Baby hasn't gone to bed yet. She wouldn't sleep until she had seen the boy, and I had to promise she might come down presently."

      "Let her come down now," said the doctor.

      The boy was supping a basin of broth when the door burst open with a bang, and like a tiny cascade which leaps and bubbles in the sunlight, a little maid of three, with violet eyes, golden complexion, and glossy black hair, came bounding into the room. She was trailing behind her a train of white nightdress, hobbling on the portion in front, and carrying under her arm a cat, which, being held out by the neck, was coiling its body and kicking its legs like a rabbit.

      But having entered with so fearless a front, the little woman drew up suddenly at sight of the boy, and, entrenching herself behind the doctor, began to swing by his coat-tails, and to take furtive glances at the stranger in silence and aloofness.

      "Bless their hearts! what funny things they are, to be sure," said the mother. "Somebody seems to have been telling her she might have a brother some day, and when nurse said to Susanna, 'The doctor has brought a boy home with him to-night,' nothing was so sure as that this was the brother they had promised her, and yet now … Roma, you silly child, why don't you come and speak to the poor boy who was nearly frozen to death in the snow?"

      But Roma's privateering fingers were now deep in her father's pocket, in search of a specimen of the sugar-stick which seemed to live and grow there. She found two sugar-sticks this time, and sight of a second suggested a bold adventure. Sidling up toward the couch, but still holding on to the doctor's coat-tails, like a craft that swings to anchor, she tossed one of the sugar-sticks on to the floor at the boy's side. The boy smiled and picked it up, and this being taken for sufficient masculine response, the little daughter of Eve proceeded to proper overtures.

      "Oo a boy?"

      The boy smiled again and assented.

      "Oo