reminded him of his own beloved country.

When we halted before the National Gallery prior to parting I made some
further inquiries regarding Armida, the black-eyed, good-looking
housemaid whom he had married.

"Ah, signore!" he responded in a voice choked with emotion, dropping
into Italian. "It is the one great sorrow of my life. I work hard from
early morning until late at night, but what is the use when I see my
poor wife gradually fading away before my very eyes? The doctor says
that she cannot possibly live through the next winter. Ah! how delighted
the poor girl would be if she could see the padrone once again!"

I felt sorry for him. Armida had been a good servant, and had served me
well for nearly three years. Old Rosina, my housekeeper, had often
regretted that she had been compelled to leave to attend to her aged
mother. The latter, he told me, had died, and afterwards he had married
her. There is more romance and tragedy in the lives of the poor Italians
in London than London ever suspects. We are too apt to regard the
Italian as a bloodthirsty person given to the unlawful use of the knife,
whereas, as a whole, the Italian colony in London is a hard-working,
thrifty, and law-abiding one, very different, indeed, to those colonies
of aliens from Northern Europe, who are so continually bringing filth,
disease, and immorality into the East End, and are a useless incubus in
an already over-populated city.

He spoke so wistfully that his wife might see me once more that, having
nothing very particular to do that evening, and feeling a deep sympathy
for the poor fellow in his trouble, I resolved to accompany him to his
house and see whether I could not, in some slight manner, render him a