f herself and little Angelo.

They wandered all about, and came near getting into some very bad
places, (which was what her naughty husband _wished_ her to do, I
suppose.) Sometimes they slept in old sheds, and behind barrels, or
anywhere where they could find a shelter for the night out of harm's
way. Poor Mrs. Cicchi was delicate, and could not bear such cruel
exposure. She took a violent cold, and that brought on a quick
consumption; and now there she lay, in that miserable room, in a
strange country, _dying_!

Poor little Angelo! well might he look wistfully at the money in the
broker's window.

Mrs. Cicchi told us that Angelo was a good boy, and would much rather
work than beg, if he could get anything to do. She said his father made
images in Italy, and that Angelo was always trying to do it too,
whenever he got a bit of clay; and sometimes she thought he could get a
living in that way when she was dead, if he had any friends; but, "poor
boy!" she said, and turned her face to the pillow. "Poor boy! oh, how
can his father forget him?"

We comforted her, and told her that Angelo should be taken care of, and
then she wiped away her tears, and said she "could die happy"--and she
did die a few days after; for cold, and hunger, and trouble had done
more mischief, than the doctor who was sent to her could undo, with all
his skill.

How poor Angelo clung to her dead body! How he kissed her hands and
face, and sobbed, "My _poor, poor_ mother!" He grieved so much that we
almost feared _he_ would die too.

By and by he listened to me. I told him that his mother was always near
him, though he could not _see_ her; and that every time he thought a
good thought, or put away an evil one, she sang a sweeter song. Angelo
liked that! His great dark eyes glittered through his tears; he smiled
and kissed my hand;--often he sits still and listens, as if he heard
his mother's song.

Angelo is a _good_ boy. When he is out of school he works with an image
maker. It is all play to _him_, he likes it so much. The old man stares
to see him go on, but don't say anything. I know very well what he is
thinking: he thinks that one of these days Congress will send Angelo an
order for a statue for the Capitol!

I think so myself.

Dear little Angelo! his father will be very glad to own him by and by.
Oh, I can tell you, _good luck_ is an _excellent "town crier," to find
people with bad memories_!

BLACK CHLOE.

I wonder how