"But where have you been all this time?" the old Squire exclaimed.
"I live now in Boston. Not long did I sell the images. I leave my
_padrone_. He was hard man, not so ver bad, but ver poor. Then I have a
cart and sell fruit, banan, orange, apple, in de street, four year.
After that I have fruit stand on Tremont Street three year. I do ver
well, and have five fruit stands; and now I buy apples to send to Genoa
and Messina."
"But Tomaso, where's little Tomaso?" grandmother Ruth exclaimed.
Emilio's face saddened. "Tomaso he die," said he and shook his head. "He
tak bad colds and have cough two year. Doctors said he have no chance in
dis climate. I send him home to Napoli, and he die. But America fine
place," Emilio added, as if defending our climate. "Good country.
Everybody do well here."
We had Emilio as a guest at our midday meal that day--quite a different
Emilio from the pinched little fellow of thirteen years before. He
glanced round the old dining-room.
"Here where I sit dat first night!" he cried, laughing like a boy. "Big
old clock right over there, Tomaso dis side of me, and young, kind,
pretty girl on other side.
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