smiling as though they were pleased at this attention which was being shown to the teacher from their parts.
At a little after two o'clock we came out, and the teacher wanted to escort us to the station. My father gave him his arm once more, and he again took me by the hand: I carried his cane for him. The people paused to look on, for they all knew him: some saluted him. At one point in the street we heard, through an open window, many boys' voices, reading together, and spelling. The old man halted, and seemed to be saddened by it.
“This, my dear Signor Bottini,” he said, “is what pains me. To hear the voices of boys in school, and not to be there any more; to think that another man is there. I have heard that music for sixty years, and I have grown to love it. Now I am deprived of my family. I have no sons.”
“No, master,” my father said to him, starting on again; “you still have many sons, scattered about the world, who remember you, as I have always remembered you.”
“No, no,” replied the master sadly; “I no longer have a school; I no longer have any sons. And without sons, I shall not live much longer. My hour will soon strike.”
“Do not say that, master; do not think it,” said my father. “You have done so much good in every way! You have put your life to such a noble use!”
The aged teacher bent his hoary head for an instant on my father's shoulder, and pressed my hand.
We entered the station. The train was on the point of starting.
