Rico went to the bedside, and looked at the child in silence. Such
little thin arms and small slender fingers, and such a pale little face,
Rico had never seen; and two big eyes looked forth from the face, and
gazed at Rico as if they would pierce him through and through; for the
child, who seldom saw any thing new, and longed for variety with all his
heart, examined every thing that came in his way very sharply.

"What is your name?" asked the child.

"Rico."

"Mine is Silvio. How old are you?"

"Almost eleven."

"And so am I," said the child.

"O Silvio! what are you saying?" said his mother at this. "You are not
quite four yet. Time does not go so fast as that."

"Play something more."

The mother seated herself by the bedside. Rico placed himself at a
little distance, and began to play on his fiddle. Silvio could not have
enough of it; and no sooner had Rico finished one piece than he shouted,
"Play another." Six times each, at the very least, had all the pieces
been repeated, when Mrs. Menotti went out, and returned with a plate
filled with yellow grapes, saying that Rico ought to rest, and sit down
by the bedside, and eat some grapes with Silvio.