in his long cloak, standing, with bowed head on the threshold, and without the courage to enter.
“Who is it?” asked the sick man.
“It is the boy who threw the snowball,” said my father. And then the old man said:—
“Oh, my poor boy! come here; you have come to inquire after the wounded man, have you not? But he is better; be at ease; he is better and almost well. Come here.”
Garoffi, who did not see us in his confusion, approached the bed, forcing himself not to cry; and the old man caressed him, but could not speak.
“Thank you, said the old man; go and tell your father and mother that all is going well, and that they are not to think any more about it.”
But Garoffi did not move, and seemed to have something to say which he dared not utter.
“What have you to say to me? What do you want?”
“I?—Nothing”.
“Well, good-bye, until we meet again, my boy; go with your heart in peace.”
Garoffi went as far as the door; but there he halted, turned to the nephew, who was following him, and who gazed curiously at him. All at once he pulled some object from beneath his cloak, put it in the boy's hand, and whispered hastily to him, “It is for you,” and away he went like a flash.
The boy carried the object to his uncle. He saw that on it was written, “I give you this.” He looked inside, and uttered an exclamation of surprise. It was the famous album, with his collection of postage-
