the narrowest streets, where there was
scarcely room for a loaded donkey to pass. A great iron-bound door stood
ajar; and, passing through, he climbed a brick staircase with dirty
walls, and a rope for balustrade, till he came to an open gallery hung
with rags. From here a flight of steps led down to a court, where from a
fountain water was drawn up by iron rollers to the different stories of
the house. Many water buckets hung side by side. Sometimes the roller
and the bucket danced in the air, splashing the water all over the
court. Another broken-down staircase led from the gallery, and two
Russian sailors running down it almost upset the poor boy. They were
coming from their nightly carousal. A woman, not very young, with an
unpleasant face and a quantity of black hair, followed them. "What have
you brought home?" she asked when she saw the boy.

"Don't be angry," he pleaded. "I received nothing, I have nothing at
all"; and he seized his mother's dress and would have kissed it. Then
they went into a little room. I need not describe it, but only say that
there stood in it an earthen pot with handles, made for holding fire,
which in Italy is called a _marito_. This pot she took in her lap,
warmed her fingers, and pushed the boy with her elbow.

"Certainly you must have some money," she said. The boy began to cry,
and then she struck him till he cried aloud.

"Be quiet, or I'll break your screaming head." She swung about the fire
pot which she held in her hand, while the boy crouched to the earth and
screamed. Then a neighbor came in, who also had a _marito_ under her
arm. "Felicita," she said, "what are you doing to the child?"

"The child is mine," she answered; "I can murder him if I like, and you
too, Giannina."

Then again she swung the fire pot about. The other woman lifted hers up
to defend herself, and the two pots clashed so violently that they were
dashed to pieces and fire and ashes flew about the room.

The boy rushed out at the sight, sped across the courtyard, and fled
from the house. The poor child ran till he was quite out of breath. At
last he stopped at the church the doors of which were opened to him the
night before, and went in. Here everything was bright, and the boy knelt
down by the first tomb on his right hand, the grave of Michelangelo, and
sobbed as if his heart would break. People came and went; the service
went on, but no one noticed the boy except an elderly citizen, who stood
still