that moment I could have cast all my playthings and all my books at his feet, I could have taken the last morsel of bread from my lips to give to him, I could have taken off my clothing to clothe him, I could have flung myself on my knees to kiss his hand.
“I shall at least give you the train,” I thought; but first I must ask my father. At that moment I felt a bit of paper thrust into my hand. I looked; it was written in pencil by my father; it said:—
“Your train strikes Precossi's fancy. He has no playthings. Does your heart suggest nothing to you?”
Instantly I seized the engine and the cars in both hands, and placed them in his arms, saying:—
“Take this; it is yours.”
He looked at me, and did not understand.
“It is yours,” I said; “I give it to you.”
Then he looked at my father and mother, in Still greater astonishment, and asked me:—
“But why?”
My father replied:—“Enrico gives it to you because he is your friend, because he loves you—to celebrate your medal.”
Precossi asked timidly:—
“I may carry it away—home?”
“Of course!” we all responded.
He was already at the door, but he dared not go out. He was happy! He begged our pardon with a mouth that smiled and quivered. Garrone helped him to wrap up the train in a handkerchief, and as he bent over, he made the things with which his pockets were filled rattle.
