The boy could not recover his voice.
“Oh, my Cicillo!” exclaimed the father, after bestowing an attentive look on the sick man, as he kissed the boy repeatedly. “Cicillo, my son, how is this? They took you to the bedside of another man. And there was I, in despair at not seeing you after mamma had written, ‘I have sent him.’ Poor Cicillo! How many days have you been here? How did this mistake occur? I have come out of it easily! I have a good constitution, you know! And how is mamma? And Concettella? And the little baby—how are they all? I am leaving the hospital now. Come, then. Oh, Lord God! Who would have thought it!”
The boy tried to interpolate a few words, to tell the news of the family. “Oh how happy I am!” he stammered. “How happy I am! What terrible days I have passed!” And he could not finish kissing his father.
But he did not stir.
“Come,” said his father; “we can get home this evening.” And he drew the lad towards him. The boy turned to look at his patient.
“Well, are you coming or not?” his father demanded, in amazement.
The boy cast yet another glance at the sick man, who opened his eyes at that moment and gazed intently at him.
Then a flood of words poured from his very soul. “No, daddy; wait—here—I can’t. Here is this old man. I have been here for five days. He gazes at me incessantly. I thought he was you. I love him dearly. He looks at me; I give him his drink; he wants me always beside him; he is very ill now. Have patience; I have not the courage—I don’t know—it pains me too much; I will return home to-morrow; let me stay here a little longer; I don’t at all like to leave him. See how he looks at me! I don’t know who he is, but he wants me; he will die alone: let me stay here, dear daddy!”
“Bravo, little fellow!” exclaimed the attendant.
The father stood in perplexity, staring at the boy; then he looked at the sick man. “Who is he?” he inquired.