y 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

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