Since then Nelly had faithfully followed the poor Italian, whom, at his own desire, she called “padre.”  It did not to her mean the same as “father,” nor would she have given to any one else the name sacred to her own unforgotten father.  But she was to the poor man as a daughter; and her brown face, though still thin, had lost the pining, wistful look which had been previously habitual to it.  Lucy observed the glow of pleasure that lighted up her face when she heard again the familiar sound of the organ in the distance.  The padre was very good to her, she said, and though they often had long weary rounds, with a scant allowance of pennies, they always had enough to eat; and hitherto it had been very pleasant, and she had no hard scrubbing or washing to do.

“I’d have died soon, Miss Lucy, if I’d stayed at Mrs. Williams’.  Was it wrong to come away?”

Lucy could not say it was, in spite of the irregularity of the precedent.

“But the padre won’t be able to go about in the winter time, Miss Lucy, for he has such a cough and pain in his breast whenever he gets wet or cold; and some days he’s hardly able to play his organ, and then I don’t know what he’ll do.  What could I do, Miss Lucy, to help him?”

Lucy promised to consider the matter.  She had obtained leave to give the organ-grinder and Nelly a good substantial meal in the kitchen, which was greatly relished by both.  She took down the name of the street in which they lived, and got a minute description of the house, promising soon to visit them.  The man was evidently far from strong, and his bright, hollow eye and haggard face, sometimes unnaturally flushed, betokened too surely incipient disease.

“And why did you never come to see me, Nelly?  You knew where I was,” said Lucy, as they were going away.

“Oh, Miss Lucy,” exclaimed Nelly eagerly, “but I did, three times, but you weren’t in; I was ashamed to come any more.  The last times they said you were away in the country.”

“But why didn’t you leave word where you were living, and I would have found you out?”

“Oh, Miss Lucy, I couldn’t think you’d be at the trouble of coming to see me!”

“Well, I will come, though, now I know where you live,” said Lucy as she bade them good-bye.

Little Amy had been very much interested in the history of Nelly, as Lucy had told it to her, and had come down to see her.  She stood by, putting her thin hand on hers, and looking up wonderingly in her face, exciting Nelly’s compassion and interest by her sweet, delicate look.  “She’s more like an angel than Miss Stella, though I used to think her like one,” thought Nelly.

Amy asked many questions about Nelly and the “poor man,” and begged Lucy to take her when she went to see them.  But so long a walk was out of the question for Amy, nor would her mother have consented to let either her or Stella go to such a quarter of the city.  Even Lucy’s going was a matter for some consideration, but she begged hard to be allowed to fulfil her promise.  At last Edwin good-naturedly said he “didn’t mind going with Lucy, to see that she wasn’t carried off for her clothes, like the little girl in the story-books;” and they made the expedition together, her cousin waiting outside while Lucy paid her most welcome visit.