found silence, broken from time to time by the distant barking of a dog.
And he wrote on and on: and meanwhile his father was behind him. He had risen on hearing the fall of the book, and had remained waiting for a long time: the rattle of the carts had drowned the noise of his footsteps and the creaking of the door-casing; and he was there, with his white head bent over Guilio's little black head, and he had seen the pen flying over the wrappers, and in an instant he had divined all, remembered all, understood all, and a despairing penitence, but at the same time an immense tenderness, had taken possession of his mind and had held him nailed to the spot and choking behind his child. Suddenly Guilio uttered a piercing shriek; two arms had pressed his head convulsively.
“Oh, papa, papa! forgive me, forgive me!” he cried, recognizing his parent by his weeping.
“Do you forgive me!” replied his father, sobbing, and covering his brow with kisses: “I have understood all, I know all; it is I who asked your pardon, my blessed child; come, come with me!” and he pushed or rather carried him to the bedside of his mother, who was awake, and throwing him into her arms, he said:— “ Kiss this little angel of a son, who has not slept for three months, but has been toiling for me, while I was saddening his heart, and he was earning our bread!” The mother pressed him to her breast and held him there, without the power to speak; at last she said: “Go to sleep at once, my baby, go to sleep and rest.—Carry him to bed.”
