hould like that, but I don't care for olives."

"They are good, too."

"I should like the grapes."

"There are other things in Italy which you would like better, Jimmy,"
said Paul.

"What do you mean, Paul?"

"The galleries of fine paintings."

"Yes, I should like to see them. Have you seen them?"

Phil shook his head. The picture galleries are in the cities, and not in
the country district where he was born.

"Sometime, when I am rich, we will all go to Italy, Jimmy; then, if Phil
is at home, we will go and see him."

"I should like that, Paul."

Though Jimmy was not yet eight years old, he had already exhibited
a remarkable taste for drawing, and without having received any
instruction, could copy any ordinary picture with great exactness. It
was the little boy's ambition to become an artist, and in this ambition
he was encouraged by Paul, who intended, as soon as he could afford it,
to engage an instructor for Jimmy.

CHAPTER V

ON THE FERRY BOAT

When supper was over, Phil bethought himself that his day's work was not
yet over. He had still a considerable sum to obtain before he dared go
home, if such a name can be given to the miserable tenement in Crosby
Street where he herded with his companions. But before going he wished
to show his gratitude to Paul for his protection and the supper which he
had so much and so unexpectedly enjoyed.

"Shall I play for you?" he asked, taking his violin from the top of the
bureau, where Paul had placed it.

"Will you?" asked Jimmy, his eyes lighting up with pleasure.

"We should be very glad to hear you," said Mrs. Hoffman.

Phil played his best, for he felt that he was playing for friends. After
a short prelude, he struck into an Italian song. Though the words were
unintelligible, the little party enjoyed the song.

"Bravo, Phil!" said Paul. "You sing almost as well as I do."

Jimmy laughed.

"You sing about as well as you draw," said the little boy.

"There you go again with your envy and jealousy," said Paul, in an
injured tone. "Others appreciate me better."

"Sing something, and we will judge of your merits," said his mother.

"Not now," said Paul, shaking his head. "My feelings are too deeply
injured. But if he has time, Phil will favor us with another song."

So the little fiddler once more touched the strings of his violin, and
sang the hymn of Garibaldi.

"He has a beautiful voice," said Mrs. Hoffman to Paul.

"Yes, Phil sings much b