"No, I am a little English girl; but my mamma was ill, and they took her to Italy, and Marcia nursed her. God has taken my mamma away, and now I am in England, and I don't like it; but I shall only stay here until my father comes home."
"Missy, you make my heart beat when you talk of Italy and of Marcia—but your Marcia, was she young?—the name is a common one, and mine, if the good Lord has not removed her, must be very old now."
"My Marcia was young and good," said the little girl. "I loved her, and I cry for her still. I am so sorry your Marcia is old, poor man. Thank you for the music. I must run in now, or Janet will scold. Good-by. Here's your sixpence."
"No, no, missy. I'll get some pence in the other streets. Let me feel that I played the old airs for you only for love."
CHAPTER II.
A FRIEND IN NEED.
Antonio did not stay out much longer in the snow. This enterprise of his had not turned out a profitable one; no one on such a miserable day felt inclined to listen to his Italian airs, the snow seemed to be locking up people's hearts, and he went back to his attic hungry and cold, and quite as penniless as when he started on his expedition. Still there was a glow in his heart, and he was not at all sorry that he had played for the pretty child for love.
He sat down in an old broken arm-chair and wrapped a tattered cloak about him, and indulged in what he called a reverie of Italy and old times. This reverie, as he said afterward, quite warmed him and took away his desire for food.