“Who are you?” said the Doctor, “that is a pretty question for a man to ask about himself. You are described in the hospital books as Pietro Limoncello—Journeyman Tailor. You’ll remember it all presently.” “How came I here?” “You were brought here by those who took pity on you; you were found lying on your own shop-board in a state of delirium, and you were instantly removed to this hospital. You have been for some days insensible.” “Oh, Doctor! I have had such dreams.” “Very likely—men in health have strange dreams, sometimes; men in fever have still stranger ones. You have had time enough for a good deal of dreaming. But come! you are going to get well now; the fever has gone down, and your senses have come back to you. This is visitors’ day: would you like to see a friend for a moment? I think you may.” “I have got no friends in this country,” said Pietro. “Haven’t you? If I remember rightly, I heard some one asking to see you only a minute ago. It is a little girl that I have seen carrying milk about somewhere in the Strand.” “Oh! To be sure, I remember her well. How curious that she should think of me! It is very kind. But she is a good girl; she looks as if she had a gentle heart. I should like her to come up, Doctor.” “Well, if you will not keep her too long, and not talk too much, she shall come.” The Doctor turned away, and in a few minutes the little milk-girl was at the patient’s bed-side. “Well, Mr. Moncello, I’ve come to see you. I would have come before, only they told me you were too bad to know any one. Aunty sends a kind message, and says, If you will make haste and get better, I am to bring you a glass of new milk every day for a fortnight—real milk, sweet and new—that isn’t to be got every day in London, I can tell you.” The patient lifted the hand of the little girl to his lips, and thanked her with his eyes. “My little maid,” he said after a pause, “I must not keep you long, nor talk much; but just a few words I should like to say. You came from the country, did you not?” “Yes!” “And was it very beautiful there?” “Oh very! My dear mother’s cottage was in the middle of a garden, and honeysuckle grew over the porch, and birds built under the eaves. I have heard the cuckoo sing there in the spring, and the nightingale, too, in the evening.” “_Remember thine early days!_” said the patient with trembling fervour. “My child! you are a good girl; I think you must have had a good mother.” “My mother!” said the child, bursting into tears. “Oh she was good indeed! Oh! how she prayed for me the night that she died! I shall never forget it, never!” Again the patient broke out, “_Remember thine early days!_ But go now my dear. Thank you, thank you kindly for coming. Heaven bless you!”