day, then an hour of gymnastics, then two hours more of evening school, which is saying little sleep, getting his food by snatches, and working breathlessly from morning till night. He has ruined his health. That is what my mother says. My mother was waiting for me at the big door. I came out alone, and on the stairs I met the teacher with the black beard—Coatti,—the one who frightens every one and punishes no one. He stared at me with wide-open eyes, and made his voice like that of a lion, in jest, but without laughing. I was still laughing when I pulled the bell on the fourth floor; but I ceased very suddenly when the servant let me into a wretched, half-lighted room, where my teacher was lying. He was in a little iron bed. His beard was long. He put one hand to his brow in order to see better, and exclaimed in his affectionate voice:—
“Oh, Enrico!”
I came to the bed. He laid one hand on my shoulder and said:—
“Good, my boy. You have done well to come and see your poor teacher. I am reduced to a sad state, as you see, my dear Enrico. And how fares the school? How are your comrades getting along? All well, eh? Even without me? You do very well without your old master, do you not?”
I was on the point of saying “no,” but he interrupted me.
“Come, come, I know that you do not hate me!” and he heaved a sigh.
I glanced at some photographs fastened to the wall.
“Do you see?” he said to me. “All of them are of
