His grandmother drew a deep breath.
“Grandmother,” said Ferruccio, still kneeling, and pressing her close to him, “dear grandmother, you love me, don't you?”
“O Ferruccio! my poor little son!” she replied, placing her hands on his head; “what a fright you must have had!—O Lord God of mercy!—Light the lamp. No; let us remain in the dark! I am still afraid.”
“Grandmother,” resumed the boy, “I have always caused you grief.”
“No, Ferruccio, you must not say such things; I shall never think of that again; I have forgotten everything, I love you so dearly!”
“I have always caused you grief,” pursued Ferruccio, with difficulty, and his voice shook; “but I have always loved you. Do you forgive me?—Forgive me, grandmother.”
“Yes, my son, I forgive you with all my heart. Think, how could I help forgiving you! Rise from your knees, my child. I will never scold you again. You are so good, so good! Let us light the lamp. Let us take courage a little. Rise, Ferruccio.”
“Thanks, grandmother,” said the boy, and his voice was still weaker. “Now—I am content. You will remember me, grandmother—will you not? You will always remember me—your Ferruccio?”
“My Ferruccio!” exclaimed his grandmother, amazed and alarmed, as she laid her hands on his shoulders and bent her head, as though to look him in the face.
“Remember me,” murmured the boy once more, in a voice that seemed like a breath. “Give a kiss to my
