our household--a winding footway leading downward in the direction
of the harbor. It was shady and cool, and I followed the road almost
unconsciously, till I caught a glimpse of masts and white sails
gleaming through the leafage of the overarching trees. I was then
about to retrace my steps, when I was startled by a sudden sound. It
was a low moan of intense pain--a smothered cry that seemed to be
wrung from some animal in torture. I turned in the direction whence
it came, and saw, lying face downward on the grass, a boy--a little
fruit-seller of eleven or twelve years of age. His basket of wares
stood beside him, a tempting pile of peaches, grapes, pomegranates,
and melons--lovely but dangerous eating in cholera times. I touched
the lad on the shoulder."

"What ails you?" I asked. He twisted himself convulsively and turned
his face toward me--a beautiful face, though livid with anguish.

"The plague, signor!" he moaned; "the plague! Keep away from me, for
the love of God! I am dying!"

I hesitated. For myself I had no fear. But my wife--my child--for
their sakes it was necessary to be prudent. Yet I could not leave
this poor boy unassisted. I resolved to go to the harbor in search
of medical aid. With this idea in my mind I spoke cheerfully.

"Courage, my boy," I said; "do not lose heart! All illness is not
the plague. Rest here till I return; I am going to fetch a doctor."

The little fellow looked at me with wondering, pathetic eyes, and
tried to smile. He pointed to his throat, and made an effort to
speak, but vainly. Then he crouched down in the grass and writhed in