It was not often that Filippo turned such a sad
little face to meet the world. Usually those black
eyes sparkled with fun and mischief, and the mouth
spread itself into a merry grin. But to-day, truly
things were worse than he ever remembered them
before, and he could remember fairly bad times, too,
if he tried.

Other children had their fathers and mothers who
gave them food and clothes, but he seemed to be
quite different, and never had had any one to care
for him. True, there was his aunt, old Mona
Lapaccia, who said he had once had a father and
mother like other boys, but she always added with
a mournful shake of her head that she alone had
endured all the trouble and worry of bringing him
up since he was two years old. `Ah,' she would
say, turning her eyes upwards, `the saints alone
know what I have endured with a great hungry
boy to feed and clothe.'

It seemed to Filippo that in that case the saints
must also know how very little he had to eat, and
how cold he was on these wintry days. But of
course they would be too grand to care about a
little boy.

In summer things were different. One could
roll merrily about in the sunshine all day long, and