somewhat. Phil, however, was an exception, and could manage to speak
English a little, though not as well as he could understand it.

"What for I go?" he asked, a little distrustfully.

"My young master wants to hear you play on your fiddle," said the
servant. "He's sick, and can't come out."

"All right!" said Phil, using one of the first English phrases he had
caught. "I will go."

"Come along, then."

Phil followed his guide into the basement, thence up two flight of
stairs, and along a handsome hall into a chamber. The little fiddler,
who had never before been invited into a fine house, looked with
admiration at the handsome furniture, and especially at the pictures
upon the wall, for, like most of his nation, he had a love for whatever
was beautiful, whether in nature or art.

The chamber had two occupants. One, a boy of twelve years, was lying
in a bed, propped up by pillows. His thin, pale face spoke of long
sickness, and contrasted vividly with the brilliant brown face of the
little Italian boy, who seemed the perfect picture of health. Sitting
beside the bed was a lady of middle age and pleasant expression. It was
easy to see by the resemblance that she was the mother of the sick boy.

Phil looked from one to the other, uncertain what was required of him.

"Can you speak English?" asked Mrs. Leigh.