We left the town, and turned into a steep lane flanked by blossoming hedges.
My father no longer talked, but appeared entirely lost in his reminiscences; and every now and then he smiled, and shook his head.
Suddenly he halted and said: “Here he is. I will wager that this is he.” Down the lane towards us a little old man with a white beard and a large hat came, leaning on a cane. He dragged his feet along, and his hands trembled.
“It is he!” repeated my father, hastening his steps.
When we were close to him, we stopped. The old man stopped also and looked at my father. His face was still fresh colored, and his eyes were clear and bright.
“Are you,” asked my father, raising his hat, “Vincenzo Crosetti, the schoolmaster?”
The old man raised his hat also, and replied: “I am,” in a voice that was somewhat tremulous, but full.
“Well, then,” said my father, taking one of his hands, “permit one of your old scholars to shake your hand and to inquire how you are. I have come from Turin to see you.”
The old man stared at him in amazement. Then he said: “You do me much honor. I do not know—when were you my scholar? Excuse me; your name, if you please.”
My father told his name, Alberto Bottini, and the year in which he had attended school, and where, and he added: “It is natural that you should not remember me. But I recall you perfectly!”
