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.
Phil looked from one to the other, uncertain what was required of him.
"Can you speak English ?" asked Mrs.Leigh.
"Si, signora, a little," answered our hero.
"My son is sick, and would like to hear you play a little." "And sing, too," added the sick boy, from the bed.
Phil struck up the song he had been singing in the street, a song well known to all who have stopped to listen to the boys of his class, with the refrain, "Viva Garibaldi." His voice was clear and melodious, and in spite of the poor quality of his instrument, he sang with so much feeling that the effect was agreeable.
The sick boy listened with evident pleasure, for he, too, had a taste for music.
"I wish I could understand Italian," he said, "I think it must be a good song." "Perhaps he can sing some English song," suggested Mrs.Leigh.
"Can you sing in English ?" she asked.
Phil hesitated a moment, and then broke into the common street ditty, "Shoe fly, don't bouder me," giving a quaint sound to the words by his Italian accent.
"Do you know any more ?" asked Henry Leigh, when our hero had finished.
"Not English," said Phil, shaking his head.
"You ought to learn more." "I can play more," said Phil, "but I know not the words." "Then play some tunes." Thereupon the little Italian struck up "Yankee Doodle," which he played with spirit and evident enjoyment.
"Do you know the name of that ?" asked Henry.
Phil shook his head.
"It is 'Yankee Doodle.'" Phil tried to pronounce it, but the words in his mouth had a droll sound, and made them laugh.
"How old are you ?" asked Henry.
"Twelve years." "Then you are quite as old as I am." "I wish you were as well and strong as he seems to be," said Mrs.Leigh, sighing, as she looked at Henry's pale face.
That was little likely to be.

Always a delicate child, Henry had a year previous contracted a cold, which had attacked his lungs, and had gradually increased until there seemed little doubt that in the long struggle with disease nature must succumb, and early death ensue.
"How long have you been in this country ?" "Un anno." "How long is that ?" "A year," said Henry.