FAREWELL
Monday, 10th.
At one o'clock we all assembled once more for the last time at the school, to hear the results of the examinations, and to take our little promotion-books. The street was thronged with parents, who had even invaded the big hall, and many had made their way into the class-rooms, pushing up as far as the master's desk. In our room they filled the entire space between the wall and the front benches.
There were Garrone's father, Derossi's mother, the blacksmith Precossi, Coretti, Signora Nelli, the vegetable-vendor, the father of the little mason, Stardi's father, and many others whom I had never seen; and on all sides could be heard a whispering and a hum, that seemed to come from the square outside.
The teacher entered, and a deep silence ensued. He had the list in his hand, and began to read at once.
“Abatucci, promoted, sixty seventieths, Archini, promoted, fifty-five seventieths.”—The “little mason” promoted; Crossi promoted. Then he read loudly:—
“Ernesto Derossi, promoted, seventy seventieths, and the first prize.”
All the parents who were there—and they all knew him—said: “Bravo, bravo, Derossi!”
And he shook his golden curls, with his easy and beautiful smile, and looked at his mother, who waved to him with her hand.
Garoffi, Garrone, and the Calabrian promoted. Then three or four sent back; and one of them began to cry because his father, who was at the entrance,
