"Filippo."

"You are an Italian, I suppose."

"Si, signore."

"Does that mean 'Yes, sir'?"

"Yes, sir," answered Phil, remembering to speak English.

"Is that your violin?"

"Yes, sir."

"Where do you live?"

Phil hesitated.

"I am traveling," he said at last.

"You are young to travel alone. How long have you been in this country?"

"A year."

"And have you been traveling about all that time?"

"No, signore; I have lived in New York."

"I suppose you have not gone to school?"

"No, signore."

"Well, I am glad to see you here; I shall be glad to have you stay and listen to our exercises."

The teacher walked back to his desk, and the lessons began. Phil listened with curiosity and attention. For the first time in his life he felt ashamed of his own ignorance, and wished he, too, might have a chance to learn, as the children around him were doing. But they had homes and parents to supply their wants, while he must work for his livelihood.

After a time, recess came. Then the boys gathered around, and asked Phil to play them a tune.

"Will he let me?" asked the young fiddler, again referring to the teacher.

The latter, being applied to, readily consented, and expressed his own wish to hear Phil. So the young minstrel played and sang several tunes to the group of children who gathered around him. Time pa.s.sed rapidly, and the recess was over before the children antic.i.p.ated it.

"I am sorry to disturb your enjoyment," said the teacher; "but duty before pleasure, you know. I will only suggest that, as our young friend here depends on his violin for support, we ought to collect a little money for him. James Reynolds, suppose you pa.s.s around your hat for contributions. Let me suggest that you come to me first."

The united offerings, though small individually, amounted to a dollar, which Phil pocketed with much satisfaction. He did not remain after recess, but resumed his wanderings, and about noon entered a grocery store, where he made a hearty lunch. Thus far good fortune attended him, but the time was coming, and that before long, when life would wear a less sunny aspect.

CHAPTER XXV

PHIL FINDS A FRIEND

It was the evening before Christmas. Until to-day the winter had been an open one, but about one o'clock in the afternoon the snow began to fall.

The flakes came thicker and faster, and it soon became evident that an old-fashioned snowstorm had set in. By seven o'clock the snow lay a foot deep on the level, but in some places considerably deeper, for a brisk wind had piled it up in places.

In a handsome house, some rods back from the village street, lived Dr.

Drayton, a physician, whose skill was so well appreciated that he had already, though still in the prime of life, acc.u.mulated a handsome competence.

He sat this evening in his library, in dressing-gown and slippers, his wife nearby engaged in some needlework.

"I hope you won't be called out this evening, Joseph," said Mrs.

Drayton, as a gust of wind tattled the window panes.

"I echo that wish, my dear," said the doctor, looking up from the last number of the Atlantic Monthly. "I find it much more comfortable here, reading Dr. Holmes' last article."

"The snow must be quite deep."

"It is. I found my ride from the north village this afternoon bleak enough. You know how the wind sweeps across the road near the Pond schoolhouse. I believe there is to be a Christmas-eve celebration in the Town Hall this evening, is there not?"

"No; it has been postponed till to-morrow evening."

"That will be better. The weather and walking will both be better. Shall we go, Mary?"

"If you wish it," she said, hesitatingly.

Her husband understood her hesitation. Christmas day was a sad anniversary for them. Four years before, their only son, Walter, a boy of eight, had died just as the Christmas church bells were ringing out a summons to church. Since then the house had been a silent one, the quiet unbroken by childish noise and merriment. Much as the doctor and his wife were to each other, both felt the void which Walter's death had created, and especially as the anniversary came around which called to mind their great loss.

"I think we had better go," said the doctor; "though G.o.d has bereft us of our own child, it will be pleasant for us to watch the happy faces of others."

"Perhaps you are right, Joseph."

Half an hour pa.s.sed. The doctor continued reading the Atlantic, while his wife, occupied with thoughts which the conversation had called up, kept on with her work.

Just then the bell was heard to ring.

"I hope it is not for you, Joseph," said his wife, apprehensively.

"I am afraid it is," said the doctor, with a look of resignation.

"I thought it would be too good luck for me to have the whole evening to myself."

"I wish you were not a doctor," said Mrs. Drayton.

"It is rather too late to change my profession, my dear," said her husband, good-humoredly. "I shall be fifty next birthday. To be sure, Ellen Jones tells me that in her cla.s.s at the Normal School there is a maiden lady of sixty-two, who has just begun to prepare herself for the profession of a teacher. I am not quite so old as that."

Here the servant opened the door, ushering in a farm laborer.

"Good-evening, Abner," said the doctor, recognizing him, as, indeed, he knew every face within half a dozen miles. "Anything amiss at home?"