unfortunate with another unfortunate. How is she getting on, then? How is she?”
My father smiled, and replied:—
“I shall not tell you anything about it; you will see; go, go; don't waste another minute!”
We started. The institute is close by. As we went along at a great pace, the gardener talked to me, and grew sad.
“Ah, my poor Gigia! To be born with such an infirmity! To think that I have never heard her call me father; that she has never heard me call her my daughter; that she has never either heard or spoken a single word since she has been in the world! And it is lucky that a charitable gentleman was found to pay the expenses of the institution. But that is all—she could not enter there until she was eight years old. She has not been at home for three years. She is now going on eleven. And she has grown? Tell me, she has grown? She is in good spirits?”
“You will see in a moment, you will see in a moment,” I replied, hastening my pace.
“But where is this institution?” he demanded. “My wife went with her after I was gone. It seems to me that it ought to be near here.”
We had just reached it. We at once entered the parlor. An attendent came to meet us.
“I am the father of Gigia Voggi,” said the gardener; “send for my daughter at once.”
“They are at play,” replied the attendant: “I will go and inform the matron.” And he hastened away.
The gardener could no longer speak nor stand still;
