“I have nothing else to give you. Take these in memory of the hospital.”
“I thank you,” said the boy, taking the bunch of flowers with one hand and drying his eyes with the other; “but I have such a long distance to go on foot—I shall spoil them”. And loosening the violets, he scattered them over the bed, saying: “I leave them in remembrance of my poor, dead man. Thank you, sister! thank you, doctor!” Then, turning to the dead man, “Farewell—” And while he sought a name to give him, the sweet name which he had applied to him for five days recurred to his lips,—“Farewell, poor daddy!”
So saying, he took his little bundle of clothes under his arm, and, with slow, weary steps, he walked away.
The day was dawning.
THE WORKSHOP
Saturday, 18th.
Precossi came last night to remind me that I was to go and see his workshop, which is down the street. So this morning when I went out with my father, I got him to take me there for a moment. As we neared the shop, Garoffi issued from it on a run, with a package in his hand, his big cloak, with which he hides his merchandise, fluttering in the wind. Ah! now I know where he goes to get the iron filings, which he sells for old papers, that trader of a Garoffi!
When we came to the door, we saw Precossi seated on a little pile of bricks, studying his lesson, with his book resting on his knees. He rose quickly and in-
