No—he looked up earnestly in my face for a minute, as if he would read my thoughts, and then he said, with his great eyes swimming in tears, "I would give it all to my mother."
I didn't care whose boy he was—he was mine then. So I just kissed him, and tried to keep from crying myself, while I asked him where he lived.
He told me in —— Court; and then we took hold of his hands and went home with him.
Such a home!
A little low room, with one small window, and no furniture in it, except an old rickety bedstead, upon which lay a woman about thirty years old, wasting away in a consumption.
Her large eyes glittered like stars, and on each cheek burned a bright red fever-spot. An old shawl was thrown on the bed for a counterpane. She had neither sheets nor blankets, and the chill night air blew through the broken window-panes, making her cough so fearfully that I thought she must die then.
Little Angelo crept to my side, and pointing to the bed, said, "That's why I wanted the money."
Well, this was her story, which (in broken English) she told us (between her coughing spells): About a year before, she came over to this country from Italy with her husband. He was a very bad man, and as soon as he landed from the ship he ran off with all their money, and left his wife to take care of 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.