“I think I am going to die, Filippo,” whispered Giacomo.
Phil started in dismay.
“No, no, Giacomo,” he said; “that is nonsense. You will live a great many years.”
“I think you will, Filippo. You are strong. But I have always been weak, and lately I am tired all the time. I don’t care to live—very much. It is hard to live;” and the little boy sighed as he spoke.
“You are too young to die, Giacomo. It is only because you are sick that you think of it. You will soon be better.”
“I do not think so, Filippo. I should like to live for one thing.”
“What is that?” asked Phil, gazing with strange wonder at the patient, sad face of the little sufferer, who seemed so ready to part with the life which, in spite of his privations and hardships, seemed so bright to him.
“I should like to go back to my home in Italy, and see my mother again before I die. She loved me.”
The almost unconscious emphasis which he laid on the word “she” showed that in his own mind he was comparing her with his father, who had sold him into such cruel slavery.
“If you live, Giacomo, you will go back and see her some day.”