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Updated: May 19, 2025
The sun was declining once more when a hack drove up to Mrs. Riley's door with John and Mary in it, and Mrs. Riley was restrained from laughing and crying only by the presence of the great Dr. Sevier and a romantic Italian stranger by the captivating name of Ristofalo.
"Well, now, you answer my question first." "No, you answer me first." "I can't. I haven't decided. I've been three days thinking about it. It may seem like a small matter to hesitate so long over" Richling paused for his hearer to dissent. "Yes," said Ristofalo, "pretty small." His smile remained the same. "She ask you? Reckon you put her up to it, eh?"
Good-e'nin'. Better tell yo' wife wait a while." "I don't know. I'll see. Ristofalo" "What?" "I want to quit this business." "Better not quit. Stick to one thing." "But you never did that. You never did one thing twice in succession." "There's heap o' diff'ence." "I don't see it. What is it?" But the Italian only smiled and shrugged, and began to move away. In a moment he said: "You see, Mr.
Ristofalo had, time and again, sailed with the fever, nursed it, slept with it. It passed him by again. Little Mike took it, lay two or three days very still in his mother's strong arms, and recovered. Madame Ristofalo had had it in "fifty-three." She became a heroic nurse to many, and saved life after life among the poor.
He brandished his fist with the last words, but dropped it at a glance from Ristofalo, and began to pace the floor along his side of the room, looking with a heavy-browed smile back and forth from one fellow-captive to the other. He waited till the visitor was about to speak, and then interrupted, pointing at him suddenly: "Ye're a Prodez'n preacher!
Ristofalo extended his toward the visitor, and touched the caption with one finger: "Mercy offered." "Well," asked the rector, pleasantly, "what's the matter with that?" "Is no use yeh. Wrong place this prison." "Um-hm," said the tract-distributor, glancing down at the leaf and smoothing it on his knee while he took time to think. "Well, why shouldn't mercy be offered here?"
Together, without objection from the captain of the yard, with many unavailing protests from Richling, who would now do it alone, and with Ristofalo smiling like a Chinaman at the obscene ribaldry of the spectators in the yard, they scrubbed the cell. Then came the tank. They had to stand in it with the water up to their knees, and rub its sides with brickbats.
I was out walking with him one sunset hour in the autumn of if I remember aright 1870, when whom should we spy but our good Kate Ristofalo, out driving in her family carriage? The cherubs were beside her, strong, handsome boys. Mike held the reins; he was but thirteen, but he looked full three years better than that, and had evidently employed the best tailor in St.
"Get it renewed!" said the little man, quickly, putting on his hat and extending a farewell hand. "Excuse me for saying so. I didn't intend it; I dropped in to ask you again the name of that Italian whom you visit at the prison, the man I promised you I'd go and talk to. Yes Ristofalo; that's it. Good-by." That night Richling wrote to his wife.
"Ristofalo, a man of your sort can hardly conceive the amount of bluster this country can stand without coming to blows. We Americans are not like you Italians." "No," responded Ristofalo, "not much like." His smile changed peculiarly. "Wasn't for Kate, I go to Italia now." "Kate and the parish prison," said Richling. "Oh!" the old smile returned, "I get out that place any time I want."
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