t till he cried out louder.

"Will you be quiet? or I'll break your screaming head;" and 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, and she had also 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." And then she swung about the fire-pot. The
other woman lifted up hers to defend herself, and the two pots clashed
together 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, the grave of Michael Angelo, and sobbed as if his
heart would break. People came and went, mass was performed, but no
one noticed the boy, excepting an elderly citizen, who stood still and
looked at him for a moment, and then went away like the rest. Hunger
and thirst overpowered the child, and he became quite faint and ill.
At last he crept into a corner behind the marble monuments, and went
to sleep. Towards evening he was awakened by a pull at his sleeve;
he started up, and the same old citizen stood before him.

"Are you ill? where do you live? have you been here all day?" were
some of the questions asked by the old man. After hearing his answers,
the old man took him home to a small house close by, in a back street.
They entered a glovemaker's shop, where a woman sat sewing busily. A
little white poodle, so closely shaven that his pink skin could
plainly be seen, frisked about the room, and gambolled upon the boy.

"Innocent souls are soon intimate," said the woman, as she
caressed both the boy and the dog. These good people gave the child
food and drink, and said he should stay with them all night, and
that the next day the old man, who was called Giuseppe, would go and
speak to his mother. A little homely bed was prepared for him, but
to him who had so often slept on the hard stones it was a royal couch,
and he slept sweetly and dreamed of the splendid pictures and of the
Metal Pig. Giuseppe went out the next morning, and the poor child
was not glad to see him go, for he knew that the