The morning dawned and brought one of those clear, crisp November days which are common in our New England after a rain, and Dino was taken to his new home. This Home for Orphan Boys is a cosey, cheerful house, and when Dino was introduced to the kind man who has charge and told if he would be a good boy he should have a home there, have dinners and suppers, have a place to sleep like other little boys, he gave a sigh of relief, took a deliberate look around the sunny room, and then thrust his little brown chubby hand into the pocket of his torn, dilapidated trousers, and drew forth the pennies that were snugly tucked away in their depths, and with a grateful smile, his black eyes fairly dancing for joy, he handed them to the superintendent, saying, "You give me home, I give you my pennies. I was so 'fraid I freeze to death." It was touching to see how Dino clung to his little old fiddle. It seemed to be the one connecting link between the days in Italy where he had lived an easy, happy life with his mother whom he seemed to love so dearly, and the new home which promised to give him shelter. His little old fiddle was a source of much amusement to the children, whose tunes he readily caught, and he soon became a great favorite. The visitors who came to the Home always asked first for Dino, the Italian boy, and seldom went away without leaving something for the little fellow. As the days and weeks wore away, Dino constantly improved in mind and manners, and developed all the sweetness of heart and disposition that he promised on that November morning when he gave "his pennies for a home." At the end of five years he left the Home and sought a place where he could earn his own living. Years passed and the memory of little Dino was fading out of the hearts of those who had befriended him, when the Sabbath stillness of a midsummer afternoon was broken by the sound of approaching footsteps, as the family sat on the broad piazza of a pleasant country house. A young gentleman was seen coming up the shady avenue, and the question went around, "Who can the stranger be?" The bell rang and the message came: "Say to the lady, Dino would like to see her. I think she will remember the name." As the lady approached--she of whom he had said on that dreary night in November, "Nobody love me, nobody smile on me but her"--she recognized the Italian eyes, and the old, sweet, musical accent with which she had been familiar years before. With a graceful bow, he said, as if to assure himself of a welcome, "Madam, I should not have ventured in your presence if I had not been informed by my friends at the Home, upon whom I have called, that you would be glad to see me; for I felt that by my long silence I had forfeited all claim to your friendship."