The door was open at Mrs. Menotti's, and the little invalid heard Rico's step as soon as he entered the garden. Mrs. Menotti came down the path to meet him, and welcomed him so cordially and led him to the living room in such a motherly way that she won his affection immediately.
Rico noticed how pleasantly the room opened to the garden. Each night the boy's tiny bed was rolled into an adjoining room, where the mother slept. Early every morning it was taken back to the living room, where the morning sun and pleasant outlook gladdened the heart of the little sufferer. Beside the bed were the tiny crutches with which the mother at times assisted him to move about the room, for he was lame and had never been able to walk.
As soon as the little one heard Rico, he lifted himself to a sitting posture by means of a cord which hung suspended from the ceiling. He could not raise himself without help. Rico noticed the frail hands and arms, and the pinched look of the wan face. The little frame seemed too delicate to be that of a boy. The child had seen but few strangers, though he had often longed for company, and now his large blue eyes fastened eagerly upon Rico.
"What is your name?" he asked at the first opportunity.
"Rico," was the answer.
"Mine is Silvio. How old are you?"
"I am eleven."
"So am I," said the little one.
"Why, Silvio, you are forgetting!" broke in Mrs. Menotti. "You are not quite four, so Rico can see that you have made a mistake."
Silvio changed the subject. "Play something, Rico," he said.