e hall into a chamber. The little fiddler,
who had never before been invited into a fine house, looked with
admiration at the handsome furniture, and especially at the pictures
upon the wall, for, like most of his nation, he had a love for whatever
was beautiful, whether in nature or art.

The chamber had two occupants. 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,