come from the country: mamma has sent me. Take a good look at me; don't you know me? Say one word to me.”
But the sick man, after having looked at him, closed his eyes.
“Daddy! daddy! What is the matter with you? I am your little son—your own Cicillo.”
The sick man did not stir, and continued to breathe painfully.
Then the lad, still weeping, took a chair, seated himself and waited, without taking his eyes from his father's face. “A doctor will surely come to pay him a visit,” he thought; “he will tell me something.” And he gave himself up to sad thoughts, recalling many things about his kind father,—the day of parting, when he had said the last good-bye to him on board the ship, the hopes which his family had founded on his journey, the anguish of his mother on the arrival of the letter. Then he thought of death: he beheld his father dead, his mother dressed in black, the family in misery. He remained a long time thus. A light hand touched him on the shoulder, and he started up: it was a nun.
“What is the matter with my father?” he asked her quickly.
“Is he your father?” said the sister gently.
“Yes, he is my father; I have come. What ails him?”
“Courage, my boy”, replied the sister; “the doctor will be here soon now”. And she went away without saying anything more.
Half an hour later he heard the sound of a bell, and
