look at his patient.

"Well, are you coming or not?" his father demanded, in amazement.

The boy cast yet another glance at the sick man, who opened his eyes at
that moment and gazed intently at him.

Then a flood of words poured from his very soul. "No, daddy;
wait--here--I can't. Here is this old man. I have been here for five
days. He gazes at me incessantly. I thought he was you. I love him
dearly. He looks at me; I give him his drink; he wants me always beside
him; he is very ill now. Have patience; I have not the courage--I don't
know--it pains me too much; I will return home to-morrow; let me stay
here a little longer; I don't at all like to leave him. See how he looks
at me! I don't know who he is, but he wants me; he will die alone: let
me stay here, dear daddy!"

"Bravo, little fellow!" exclaimed the attendant.

The father stood in perplexity, staring at the boy; then he looked at
the sick man. "Who is he?" he inquired.

"A countryman, like yourself," replied the attendant, "just arrived from
abroad, and who entered the hospital on the very day that you entered
it. He was out of his senses when they brought him here, and could not
speak. Perhaps he has a family far away, and sons. He probably thinks
that your son is one of his."

The sick man was still looking at the boy.

The father said to Cicillo, "Stay."

"He will not have to stay much longer," murmured the attendant.

"Stay," repeated his father: "you have heart. I will go home
immediately, to relieve mamma's distress. Here is a scudo for your
expenses. Good by, my brave little son, until we meet!"

He embraced him, looked at him intently, kissed him again on the brow,
and went away.

The boy returned to his post at the bedside, and the sick man appeared
consoled. And Cicillo began again to play the nurse, no longer weeping,
but with the same eagerness, the same patience, as before; he again
began to give the man his drink, to arrange his bedclothes, to caress
his hand, to speak softly to him, to exhort him to courage. He attended
him all that day, all that night; he remained beside him all the
following day. But the sick man continued to grow constantly worse; his
face turned a purple color, his breathing grew heavier, his agitation
increased, inarticulate cries escaped his lips, the inflammation became
excessive. On his evening visit, the doctor said that he would not live
through the night. And then Cicillo redoubled his cares, and never