at it for a while, and could not speak. She was obliged to go away soon to visit a boy belonging to her class, the son of a saddler, who is ill with the measles; and she had besides a package of sheets to correct, a whole evening's work; and she had still a private lesson in arithmetic to give to the mistress of a shop before nightfall.
“Well, Enrico,” she said to me as she was going, “are you still fond of your schoolmistress, now that you do hard sums and write long compositions?” She kissed me, and called up once more from the foot of the stairs: “You are not to forget me, you know, Enrico!”
Oh, my kind teacher, never, never shall I forget you! Even when I grow up I shall remember you and shall go to seek you among your boys; and every time I pass near a school and hear the voice of a schoolmistress, I shall think that I hear your voice, and I shall recall the two years I passed in your school, where I learned so many things, where I so often saw you ill and weary, but always earnest, always indulgent, in despair when any one was clumsy with his pen, trembling when the examiners asked us questions, happy when we made a good showing, always kind and loving as a mother. Never, never shall I forget you, my teacher!
IN AN ATTIC
Friday, 28th.
Yesterday evening I went with my mother and my sister Sylvia, to carry the linen to the poor woman recommended by the newspaper. I carried the bundle;
