to recover his serenity and his courage. Think, then, what must be his sorrow, when instead of finding in you affection, he finds coldness and disrespect! Never again stain yourself with this horrible ingratitude! Reflect, that were you as good as a saint, you could never repay him sufficiently for what he has done and for what he is constantly doing for you. And reflect, also, we cannot count on life; a misfortune might remove your father while you are still a boy,—in two years, in three months, to-morrow.
Ah, my poor Enrico, when you see all about you changing, how empty, how desolate the house will appear, with your poor mother clothed in black! Go, my son, go to your father; he is in his room at work. Go on tiptoe, so that he may not hear you enter; go and lay your forehead on his knees, and ask him to pardon and to bless you.
Your Mother.
IN THE COUNTRY
Monday, 19th.
My good father forgave me on this occasion also, and allowed me to go on an expedition to the country, which had been arranged on Wednesday, with the father of Coretti, the wood-peddler. We were all in need of a mouthful of mountain air.
It was a holiday. We met at two o'clock in the place of the Statue—Derossi, Garrone, Garoffi, Precossi, Coretti, father and son, and I with our provisions of fruit, sausages, and hard-boiled eggs; we also carried leather bottles and tin cups. Garrone carried a gourd filled with white wine; Coretti, his father's soldier--
