feeling the boy's head anxiously, as it lay upon her knees; and
then with all the power of voice of which her throat was capable, and in
desperation: "Ferruccio! Ferruccio! Ferruccio! My child! My love! Angels
of Paradise, come to my aid!"

But Ferruccio made no reply. The little hero, the saviour of the mother
of his mother, stabbed by a blow from a knife in the back, had rendered
up his beautiful and daring soul to God.

THE LITTLE MASON ON HIS SICK-BED.

Tuesday, 18th.

The poor little mason is seriously ill; the master told us to go and see
him; and Garrone, Derossi, and I agreed to go together. Stardi would
have come also, but as the teacher had assigned us the description of
_The Monument to Cavour_, he told us that he must go and see the
monument, in order that his description might be more exact. So, by way
of experiment, we invited that puffed-up fellow, Nobis, who replied
"No," and nothing more. Votini also excused himself, perhaps because he
was afraid of soiling his clothes with plaster.

We went there when we came out of school at four o'clock. It was raining
in torrents. On the street Garrone halted, and said, with his mouth full
of bread:--

"What shall I buy?" and he rattled a couple of soldi in his pocket. We
each contributed two soldi, and purchased three huge oranges. We
ascended to the garret. At the door Derossi removed his medal and put it
in his pocket. I asked him why.

"I don't know," he answered; "in order not to have the air: it strikes
me as more delicate to go in without my medal." We knocked; the father,
that big man who looks like a giant, opened to us; his face was
distorted so that he appeared terrified.

"Who are you?" he demanded. Garrone replied:--

"We are Antonio's schoolmates, and we have brought him three oranges."

"Ah, poor Tonino!" exclaimed the mason, shaking his head, "I fear that
he will never eat your oranges!" and he wiped his eyes with the back of
his hand. He made us come in. We entered an attic room, where we saw
"the little mason" asleep in a little iron bed; his mother hung
dejectedly over the bed, with her face in her hands, and she hardly
turned to look at us; on one side hung brushes, a trowel, and a
plaster-sieve; over the feet of the sick boy was spread the mason's
jacket, white with lime. The poor boy was emaciated; very, very white;
his nose was pointed, and his breath was short. O dear Tonino, my little
comrade! you who were so kind and merr