“I wish it were night, Filippo,” said Giacomo, shivering with cold.
“So do I, Giacomo. Are you very cold?”
“Yes,” said the little boy, his teeth chattering. “I wish I were back in Italy. It is never so cold there.”
“No, Giacomo; you are right. But I would not mind the cold so much, if I had a warm overcoat like that boy,” pointing out a boy clad in a thick overcoat, and a fur cap drawn over his ears, while his hands were snugly incased in warm gloves.
He, too, looked at the two fiddlers, and he could not help noticing how cold they looked.
“Look here, you little chaps, are you cold? You look as if you had just come from Greenland.”
“Yes,” said Phil. “We are cold.”
“Your hands look red enough. Here is an old pair of gloves for one of you. I wish I had another pair. They are not very thick, but they are better than none.”
He drew a pair of worsted gloves from his pocket, and handed them to Phil.
“Thank you,” said Phil; but having received them, he gave them to Giacomo.