“Come, stand in here, where it does not drip,” cried the nurse, drawing her away.
Nino peeped under his coat, to be sure his guitar had not been transformed, and then stepped aside under the eaves. It seemed as if he ought to be wet when such a lovely being was obliged to endure the discomfort of standing there. As she chattered, he drew near again, and wondered whether angels did not look like that. She was certainly more beautiful than those in churches. He had forgotten that he was cold, and was feeling very happy, when the intentness of his gaze attracted the child’s attention. She was whispering to her nurse, when a harsh voice cried out,—
“Boy, go away from there! I can’t watch those apples all the time.”
Nino had thoughtlessly laid his hand on the barrel, and when the grocer spoke, moved hastily away.
“Here, little boy,” cried the silvery tones of the child; “don’t go; I want to give you an apple.” Then she said to the grocer, “A big one, please.”
“Yes, miss; I did not notice you were there; but those boys are so bad!”
Nino’s face flushed, and his eyes glittered; but when the child handed him the apple, he smiled, touched his hat, and said,—
“Thankee, little lady.”
As he walked away, he did not notice the falling drops, but laid his cheek against the apple, and smoothed its plump rosiness before he tasted its rich juiciness.
Nino had no associates among the rough boys in the streets; he had a pride that kept him above their coarse ways. As he played and sang the songs he learned in Italy, dim memories of a better life came to him, and his music seemed a holy spirit. He would have died but for that, his life was so cold, hard, and bare.