fforts, and while the old organist was locking up,
thought she would run down and warm herself in the church. As she
hastened toward the great heater, she tripped over something, which, to
her great surprise and alarm, she perceived what appeared to be a great
bundle was in reality a sleeping child.

Yes, a child, and a little one--a boy of not more than seven years, with
elfish brown locks, and eyelashes which swept the olive tint of his
cheek. All curled up in a heap, in clothes which a man might have worn,
so big and shapeless were they, with one arm under his head for a
pillow, and the other tightly grasping a violin. Far had he wandered in
the cold wintry air, until, attracted by the light and warmth of the
great church, he had stolen in for shelter, and then as his little ears
drank in the melody of the rehearsing choir, and the warmth comforted
him, he fell fast asleep. He was dreaming now of the warm sunny land of
his birth: olive-trees and orchards, purple clusters of the vineyards,
donkeys laden with oranges, and the blue sky of Naples shining over the
blue bay. Then, in his dream, an angel came floating down out of the
pure ether, wafting sweet perfumes on its white wings, and singing--oh!
what heavenly strains!--till his little soul was filled with joy; for
the angel seemed to be his mother who had died, and her kind voice again
saluted him, and he answered, softly, "Madre mia!"

"Poor child!" said Mrs. Morton, softly, "it seems a pity to waken him,
but we must do it; he can not stay here all night." The old organist
touched him; but his sleep was too sound for a touch to arouse him, and
Mrs. Morton had to again and again lift his head and stroke his little
brown hand, before, with amazed and widely fearful looks, he answered
them.

"Who are you, child, and what are you doing here?" asked the organist.

"I'm Toni, Toni," was the answer, and he began to cry. "Oh, please let
me go: the Padrone will kill me."

"Why will he kill you, and why are you here?"

"He will kill me because I have no money. I have lost, also, my way."

"Have you no home, no mother?" asked Mrs. Morton, gently.

"No, signora, no, madame, no mother. We all live, Baptiste and Vincenzo
and I, with the Padrone. We play the harp and the violin; but I was
tired, and I could not keep with the others, and they scolded me, oh, so
sharply! and I was weary and cold, and crept in here where the angels
sing, and it was so beautiful I could not