“Thank you,” he said.
“Good-night,” said the stranger, kindly.
“Good-night, signore.”
An hour passed. The City Hall clock near by struck eleven. The time had come for returning to their mercenary guardian. Phil shook the sleeping form of Giacomo. The little boy stirred in his sleep, and murmured, “Madre.” He had been dreaming of his mother and his far-off Italian home. He woke to the harsh realities of life, four thousand miles away from that mother and home.
“Have I slept, Filippo?” he asked, rubbing his eyes, and looking about him in momentary bewilderment.
“Yes, Giacomo. You have slept for two hours and more. It is eleven o’clock.”
“Then we must go back.”
“Yes; take your violin, and we will go.”
They passed out into the cold street, which seemed yet colder by contrast with the warm hotel they just left, and, crossing to the sidewalk that skirts the park, walked up Centre street.
Giacomo was seized with a fit of trembling. His teeth chattered with the cold. A fever was approaching, although neither he nor his companion knew it.