Vainly we pleaded with the mother of Madalina to carry her to a comfortable room--to my house--to any house--to the hospital--to get a physician--a nurse--some one, at least, to give her a drink of cold water through the next long, long day, when she would be left nearly alone--perhaps quite so--locked in this dreadful room--while men and monkeys, organs and tambourines, beggers and rag-pickers, were all away plying their trades in the streets of the city. It was no use; she was inexorable. The _padre_ was a very good doctor--the _padre_ was good for her soul--the _padre_ would pray for her; and if she was to die, she should not die in the house of a heretic. So we parted. It was a hard parting, for she clung to each one as she said: "Good bye; I wish I could go with you, but my mother--you have taught me to obey my mother, that all good children obey their mothers--so good bye--good bye, Tom. You will bring me another drink to-morrow? yes, I knew you would, if I asked you, you are so good to me." There were tears at parting, and they were not all tears of a sick child, or good boy, but strong men wept. "Tom," said the feeble, sobbing voice, after we had almost reached the door, over the careless sleepers on the floor; "Tom, come back a minute, I want to--want to--say--what if I should not see you again? I want to send something to Mrs. Pease; she was so kind to me; I wish I had something to send her to remember me by; but I have got nothing--nothing. Yes, I will send her a--a little nearer." And she put her arms around his neck, and imprinted a kiss upon his lips. "There, I will send her that, it is all I have--it will tell her I love her, for I never kiss any but those I love." Poor Madalina! Poor Tom! What must have been his feelings at that moment, with the kiss of that angelic, dying girl burning upon his lips, and running streams of lava down into his young heart, while these words, "I never kiss any but those I love," are thrilling through his brain like words of fire? What he felt I cannot tell. I will not tell what I felt after the first flow of scalding tears had passed away, but I fear there was an unforgiving spirit in my heart; and if the foot which crashed that tender flower had been there then, perhaps it and its fellow had not carried their moving power, the head, "this side up with care." Perhaps that head would have been pitched headlong down these long, steep, dark, and narrow stairs, to the pavement--less hard than its guiding heart. "We must not kill," said Tom, as we reached the street. Had he divined my secret thoughts, or was it the response to his own? "We must not kill those who sell the rum, or kick little children to death, or make brutes of their mothers, but we will kill the business, or else we will prove that all are not good men in this world who pretend to be."