“It is an Italian boy, and here is his violin. The poor child may be dead,” he said to himself in a startled tone. “I must carry him home, and see what I can do for him.”
So he took up tenderly our young hero—for our readers will have guessed that it was Phil—and put both him and his violin into the sleigh. Then he drove home with a speed which astonished even his horse, who, though anxious to reach his comfortable stable, would not voluntarily have put forth so great an exertion as was now required of him.
I must explain that Phil had for the last ten days been traveling about the country, getting on comfortably while the ground was bare of snow. To-day, however, had proved very uncomfortable. In the city the snow would have been cleared off, and would not have interfered so much with traveling.
He had bought some supper at a grocery store, and, after spending an hour there, had set out again on his wanderings. He found the walking so bad that he made up his mind to apply for a lodging at a house not far back; but a fierce dog, by his barking, had deterred him from the application. The road was lonely, and he had seen no other house since. Finally, exhausted by the effort of dragging himself through the deep snow, and, stiff with cold, he sank down by the side of the road, and would doubtless have frozen had not the doctor made his appearance opportunely.
Mrs. Drayton was alarmed when her husband entered the sitting-room, bearing Phil’s insensible form.
She jumped to her feet in alarm.
“Who is it, Joseph?” she asked.
“A poor Italian boy, whom I found by the side of the road.”
“Is he dead?” asked the doctor’s wife, quickly.
“I think not. I will restore him if there is any life left in him.”