“Oh, I should like to, so much!  And perhaps he has a Newfoundlander with a bushy tail and a brass collar,—­that would be nicer than a kangaroo.  But—­but”—­looking comically bothered,—­“I never knew a carpenter’s son in my life.  I am sure my father would not give me permission,—­I am sure he would be very angry, if I asked him.  Are they not very disagreeable, that sort of boys?  Don’t they swear, and tear their clothes, and fight, and sing vulgar songs, and tell lies, and sit down in the middle of the street?”

Merciful Heaven! thought I,—­here’s a crying shame! here’s an interesting case for professors of moral hygiene!  An apt, intelligent little man, with an empty mind, and a by-no-means overloaded stomach, I’ll engage,—­with a pride-paralyzed father, and a beer-bewitched slattern of a mother,—­with his living to get, in San Francisco, too, and the world to make friends with,—­who has never enjoyed the peculiar advantages to be derived from the society of little dirty boys, never been admitted to the felicity of popular songs, nor exercised his pluck in a rough-and-tumble, nor ventilated himself in wholesome “giddy, giddy, gout,”—­to whom dirt-pies are a fable!

“Ferdy,” said I, “I’ll talk with your father myself.  But tell me, now, what makes you so happy to-day.”

“My father got a letter this morning,”—­a mail had just arrived; it brought no smile or tear for me,—­no parallelogram of tragedy or comedy in stationery,—­“such a pleasant one, from my uncle Miguel, at Florence, in Italy, you know.  He is well, and quite rich, my father says; they have restored to him his property that he thought was all lost forever, and they have made him a chevalier again.  But I am sure my father will tell you all about it, for he said he did hope you would come to-day; and he is so happy and so kind!”

“They have made him a chevalier again,” I wondered.  “Your uncle Miguel is your father’s brother, then, Ferdy.  And did you ever see him?”

Before he could reply, Pintal entered, stepping smartly, his color heightened with happiness, his eyes full of an extraordinary elation.

“Ah! my dear Doctor, I am rejoiced to find you here; I have been wishing for you.  See! your picture is finished.  Tell me if you like it.”

“Indeed, a work of beauty, Pintal.”

“To me, too, it never looked so well before; but I see things with glad eyes to-day.  I have much to tell you.  Ferdy, your mother is dining at the restaurant; go join her.  And when you have finished your dinner, ask her to take you to walk.  Say that I am engaged.  Would you not like to walk, my boy, and see how fast the new streets spring up?  When you return, you can tell me of all you saw.”

The boy turned up his lovely face to be kissed, and for a moment hung fondly on his father’s neck.  The poor painter’s lips quivered, and his eyes winked quickly.  Then the lad took his cap, and without another word went forth.