"He will not have to stay much longer," murmured the attendant.
"Stay," repeated his father: "you have heart. I will go home
immediately, to relieve mamma's distress. Here is a scudo for your
expenses. Good by, my brave little son, until we meet!"
He embraced him, looked at him intently, kissed him again on the brow,
and went away.
The boy returned to his post at the bedside, and the sick man appeared
consoled. And Cicillo began again to play the nurse, no longer weeping,
but with the same eagerness, the same patience, as before; he again
began to give the man his drink, to arrange his bedclothes, to caress
his hand, to speak softly to him, to exhort him to courage. He attended
him all that day, all that night; he remained beside him all the
following day. But the sick man continued to grow constantly worse; his
face turned a purple color, his breathing grew heavier, his agitation
increased, inarticulate cries escaped his lips, the inflammation became
excessive. On his evening visit, the doctor said that he would not live
through the night. And then Cicillo redoubled his cares, and never took
his eyes from him for a minute. The sick man gazed and gazed at him, and
kept moving his lips from time to time, with great effort, as though he
wanted to say something, and an expression of extraordinary tenderness
passed over his eyes now and then, as they continued to grow smaller and
more dim. And that night the boy watched with him until he saw the first
rays of dawn gleam white through the windows, and the sister appeared.
The sister approached the bed, cast a glance at the patient, and then
went away with rapid steps. A few moments later she reappeared with the
assistant doctor, and with a nurse, who carried a lantern.
"He is at his last gasp," said the doctor.
The boy clasped the sick man's hand. The latter opened his eyes, gazed
at him, and closed them once more.
At that moment the lad fancied that he felt his hand pressed. "He
pressed my hand!" he exclaimed.
The doctor bent over the patient for an instant, then straightened
himself up.
The sister detached a crucifix from the wall.
"He is dead!" cried the boy.
"Go, my son," said the doctor: "your work of mercy is finished. Go, and
may fortune attend you! for you deserve it. God will protect you.
Farewell!"
The sister, who had stepped aside for a moment, returned with a little
bunch of violets which she had taken from a glass on the window-sill,
and handed them to the boy, saying:--
"I have nothing else to give you. Take these in memory of the hospital."
"Thanks," returned the boy, taking the bunch of flowers with one hand
and drying his eyes with the other; "but I have such a long distance to
go on foot--I shall spoil them." And separating the violets, he
scattered them over the bed, saying: "I leave them as a memento for my
poor dead man. Thanks, sister! thanks, doctor!" Then, turning to the
dead man, "Farewell--" And while he sought a name to give him, the sweet
name which he had applied to him for five days recurred to his
lips,--"Farewell, poor daddy!"
So saying, he took his little bundle of clothes under his arm, and,
exhausted with fatigue, he walked slowly away. The day was dawning.