“I give you the medal, Precossi. No one is more worthy to wear it than you. I bestow it not only on your intelligence and your good will; I bestow it on your heart, I give it to your courage, to your character of a brave and good son. Is it not true,” he added, turning to the class, “that he deserves it also on that score?”
“Yes, yes!” all answered, with one voice. Precossi made a movement of the throat as though he were swallowing something, and cast upon the benches a very sweet look, which bespoke his immense gratitude.
“Go, my dear boy,” said the superintendent; “and may God protect you!”
It was the hour for dismissing the school. Our class got out before the others. As soon as we were outside the door, whom should we espy there in the large hall just at the entrance? The father of Precossi, the blacksmith, pale as usual, with fierce face, hair hanging over his eyes, his cap awry, and unsteady on his legs. The teacher caught sight of him instantly, and whispered to the superintendent. The latter sought out Precossi in haste, and taking him by the hand, he led him to his father. The boy was trembling. He and the superintendent approached; several of the boys collected around them.
“Is it true that you are the father of this lad?” asked the superintendent of the blacksmith, with a cheerful air, as though they were friends. And, without awaiting a reply:—“I rejoice with you. Look: he has won the second medal over fifty- four of his comrades. He has deserved it by his composition, his arithmetic, everything. He is a boy of great
