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Such a rickety old tenement house as it used to be! But now, a more manly landlord has cleansed and put into repair this miserable building, and we need not be afraid to-day to go up the new clean stairway. Two rooms, as neat as neat can be, with a few pictures on the four walls, -- the commonest of prints to be sure, but pretty pictures for all that; a nicely scoured floor, a few hard chairs, and a bed in one corner of the larger room where Amelia's uncle, a helpless cripple, lies all day long. This is the home to which our little fruit girl is so eager to carry the news of a successful day. Her own father, in a fit of despondency, shot himself; and then there followed long weary days and weeks when the poor mother, utterly discouraged and heart-broken, grew paler, thinner, weaker, until at last, death came with its longed-for rest, and little Amelia was left without father or mother -- all alone in the wide world!

Well, the good auntie, who, with a helpless husband and four little children dependent upon her, had found ways and means to care for her sick sister, now opened heart and home to poor little Amelia.

So, ever since her mother's death she has never known what it was to be without some one to love and care for her, and that, I think, is one secret of her bright happy face; for, if there is only "love at home," we can always work with a light heart and willing hands.

This fruit stand that Amelia and her auntie tend alternately, is the sole means of support of the whole family. And when we stop to think of the seven hungry mouths to feed, and the rent -- not less than eight dollars a month -- that must be paid for their rooms down on Mechanic Street, it is very easy to see what becomes of all the bright pennies.

Such a brave, cheerful spirit as this noble-hearted woman has shown, ever since the sad accident that crippled her hard-working husband. He was a gardener, she tells me, upon a gentleman's place in Somerville, and one day when pruning trees, he fell in such a way upon the sharp instruments that his spine was very badly hurt. That was four or five years ago and he has not been able to do a day's work since, -- indeed, I doubt if he is ever able to do anything more,- but patient Mrs. Vicarro never complains of her hard lot.

"God has taken care of us," she says, "and I am just as sure as can be He always will!"

To give her husband every possible comfort and to keep a pleasant home for the little ones, has been her chief desire, and she has worked hard to obtain it. At first, she took in washing and ironing, but that was never so profitable as the fruit stand has been. For, among the Italians in Boston there are a number who are able to club together and obtain large quantities of fruit at very low prices.

The shrewdest one in the little circle is deputed to make the daily purchase. Much of the fruit is obtained directly of the importers at the wharves, who carefully assort it; that which is likely to keep only a short time, being sold to the agents of the street venders at far lower prices than the fruit stores pay for the carefully selected fruits.

North Market Street is also a busy scene early in the morning, many of the little fruit-sellers resorting thither to buy their daily stock-in-trade.

"And I've always found good friends," says Mrs. Viccaro, whose cheery face fairly beamed as she told me how they had been helped over the "hard places."

As I write, another picture comes up before me.

It is late in the afternoon, and a ray of the bright golden sunset streams into the narrow court and rests lovingly upon a rough box of house plants, high up on the brick wall. In one window is a large English ivy, so green and thrifty I know its owner loves and cares for what is beautiful, but with this exception just see how forlorn and dreary it is -- this miserable, filthy Court!

There are all sorts of broken things scattered about, and. in one corner an old umbrella man is looking over his "stock in trade." Babies in arms, and little creatures just big enough to toddle about, crowd together upon the dirty steps, while their mothers strive to catch a breath of fresh air, and do their week's mending at the same time. Old grandmothers are here, too, with funny looking caps; and out of every window, almost, there are two or three unkempt heads peering down on the scene below.

And oh, such a jabbering from top to bottom! Of course, it is all in Italian; even the babies don't seem to cry like other children. And there is one little black-eyed morsel with arms and feet strapped down to a board -- like an Indian pappoose, -- I was going to say; but, dear me, it looks more like an Egyptian mummy!

"Her make straight," says the proud little mother in broken Italian.

The baby looks up at us with eyes so big and so black and so round and so wise that we haven't a word to say. But when little Rosanna comes running to us with her basket of fruit, we can better understand what makes the ten-year-old child so very small and slight for her age. And did you ever see an Italian boy or girl that was not under size? Poor little creatures! This curious custom may possibly help to make them straight and supple, but, hindering all muscular movement for months and months, how it must retard their growth and strength in every way.