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 you did. 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 a heart. I will go home at once, to relieve mamma's distress. Here is a scudo for your expenses. Good-bye, my brave little son, until we meet!”
He embraced him, looked at him fixedly, kissed him again on the brow, and went away.
The boy went back 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, he grew more restless, inarticulate cries escaped his lips, the swelling became greater. On his evening visit, the doctor said that he
