far from Forli, a town of Romagna; and there was near it an uninhabited house, ruined two months previously by fire, and on which the sign of an inn was still to be seen. Behind the tiny house was a small garden surrounded by a hedge, upon which a rustic gate opened. The door of the shop, which also served as the house door, opened on the highway. All around spread the solitary country,—wide, cultivated fields, planted with mulberry-trees.
It was nearly midnight. It was raining and blowing. Ferruccio and his grandmother were still up, sitting in the dining-room, between which and the garden was a small, closet-like room, with old furniture. Ferruccio had returned home only at eleven o'clock, after an absence of many hours, and his grandmother had watched for him with eyes wide open, filled with anxiety. She sat in the large arm-chair, upon which she was accustomed to pass the entire day, and often the whole night as well, since a difficulty of breathing did not allow her to lie down in bed.
The wind and rain beat against the window-panes: the night was very dark. Ferruccio had returned weary, muddy, with his jacket torn, and the livid mark of a stone on his forehead. He had engaged in a stone fight with his comrades; they had come to blows, as usual; and in addition he had gambled, and lost all his soldi, and left his cap in a ditch.
Although the kitchen was lighted only by a small oil-lamp, placed on the corner of the table, near the arm-chair, his poor grandmother had instantly seen the wretched condition of her grandson, and had partly
