The Little Princess of Tower Hill

CHAPTER III.

GLAD TIDINGS

"I must not leave my barrel-organ in the street," said Antonio to the child; "will you let me take it home first, missy? and then I can take you back to your father."

Little Mona, holding Antonio's hand, and walking by his side in the midst of the rabble, was a totally different child from Mona, standing by herself under the street lamp.

"I shall like to see your home, organ-man," she said in her sweet voice. "Do you really live in an attic? Marcia and her mother live in an attic in Italy, too, and Marcia likes it."

Then they walked through the streets together, and Mona went upstairs with Antonio. She seemed quite contented in the funny little place, and sat down on a low seat with a sigh of satisfaction.

"I am so glad I met you, organ-man, and I like your home. I would much rather live here with you than go back to Janet. I am dreadfully afraid of Janet, and I sometimes think my father will never come. I wish I could live with you, organ-man," continued little Mona in a piteous voice, "for you could talk to me about Italy, where my dear mamma died, and oh! organ-man, you do remind me of Marcia."

"I once had two Marcias," said old Antonio in a grave and troubled voice; "the little one is with God, and the wife whom I love, I don't know what shelter she is finding for her gray hairs. It troubles me to hear you speak of Marcia, missy. It brings back painful memories."

The child had a thoughtful and serious face; she now fixed her eyes on old Antonio, and did not speak.

"And I must take you home," continued the old man. "I should like to keep you with me, my little bright missy, but suppose your good father has returned, fancy his agony."

"If I could think my father had come, how glad I should be!" said little Mona, and she went over to Antonio and took his hand. It was not a very long way from Antonio's attic to the house in B – Square.

Antonio was too old and too feeble to carry the little girl all the way. He would have liked to do so, for the feel of her little arms round his neck, and her soft brown cheek pressed to his, brought the strangest peace and comfort to his heart.

Antonio had not had such a good time since he left Italy, and he could not help feeling, in some inexplicable way, that he was going back to Marcia.

At last they reached the house, and the old organ-man's ring was speedily answered. Immediately there was a shout of delight and a great bustle, and little Mona was almost torn from her companion and carried into a dining-room, which was very bright with firelight and gaslight.

Antonio, standing on the hall-door steps, heard some very tender and loving words addressed in a manly voice to the little girl.

Then he said to himself, "The dear little one's father has come and her heart will be at rest." And he began slowly to go down the steps, and to turn back to a world which was once more quite sunless and cold.

But this was not to be, for little Mona's voice arrested him, and both she and her father brought him into the house and into the warm dining-room. There Mr. Sinclair shook his hand, and thanked him many times, and tried to explain to him something of the agony he had undergone when he had listened to the terrified Janet's confession, and had discovered that his only child was gone.

"I too have lost a child," said old Antonio. "I can sympathize with your feelings, sir."

"But you have got to tell my father all that story of the Marcia with gray hair," said little Mona. She was a totally different child now, her timidity and fear were gone, she danced about, and put Antonio into a snug chair, and insisted once more on his telling his story.

When he had finished, Mr. Sinclair said a few words: "I believe God's providence sent you here to-night in a double sense, and I begin to see my way to pay you back in some measure for what you have done for me. The young girl who so devotedly nursed my wife during her long illness was called Marcia. We wished to bring her to England, for my child loved her much, but we could not induce her to go away from an old mother of the same name. She often told us what hard times this mother had undergone, and how her heart was almost broken for her husband, who had gone away to England to seek his fortune, but had never come back. Now, can it be possible that these two Marcias are yours, and that the man who said your child was dead was mistaken?"

"It may be so," said old Antonio, whose face had grown very white. "Oh! sir, if ever you go back to Naples could you find out from that Marcia with gray hairs if the husband she laments was one Antonio, an old man, who played Italian airs?"

"My child and I are going back to Naples next week," said Mr. Sinclair, "and suppose you come with us and find out for yourself, Antonio."

CHAPTER IV.

AT LAST

There came a warm day, full of light, and life, and color; a day over which the blue sky of Italy smiled. Beside an artistically arranged fruit stall a slender and handsome Italian girl stood. Behind the stall, on a low seat, sat an old woman; she was knitting, but her restless eyes took eager count of every passer-by.

"Did you observe that old man, Marcia?" she said in her rapid Italian to the young girl.

The girl turned her beautiful and pitying eyes full on the old woman. "He was not my father, mother. Ah! dear mother, can you not rest content that the good God has taken my father to himself?"

"Fifteen years," muttered the old Italian woman. "Fifteen years, with the love growing stronger, and the heart emptier, and the longing sorer. No, I have not given him up. Oh! my merciful Father in heaven, what – who is that?" A little group was coming up to the fruit stall, a child who danced merrily, an old man with a bent white head, and a gentleman on whose arm he leaned.

They came up close. The child flew to the younger Marcia, the old couple gazed at each other with that sudden trembling which great and wonderful heart-joy gives, they came a little nearer, and then their arms were round each other's necks.

"At last, Marcia," said old Antonio – "at last!"