of
surprise. It was the famous album, with his collection of
postage-stamps, which poor Garoffi had brought, the collection of which
he was always talking, upon which he had founded so many hopes, and
which had cost him so much trouble; it was his treasure, poor boy! it
was the half of his very blood, which he had presented in exchange for
his pardon.

THE LITTLE FLORENTINE SCRIBE.

(_Monthly Story._)

He was in the fourth elementary class. He was a graceful Florentine lad
of twelve, with black hair and a white face, the eldest son of an
employee on the railway, who, having a large family and but small pay,
lived in straitened circumstances. His father loved him and was
tolerably kind and indulgent to him--indulgent in everything except in
that which referred to school: on this point he required a great deal,
and showed himself severe, because his son was obliged to attain such a
rank as would enable him to soon obtain a place and help his family; and
in order to accomplish anything quickly, it was necessary that he should
work a great deal in a very short time. And although the lad studied,
his father was always exhorting him to study more.

His father was advanced in years, and too much toil had aged him before
his time. Nevertheless, in order to provide for the necessities of his
family, in addition to the toil which his occupation imposed upon him,
he obtained special work here and there as a copyist, and passed a good
part of the night at his writing-table. Lately, he had undertaken, in
behalf of a house which published journals and books in parts, to write
upon the parcels the names and addresses of their subscribers, and he
earned three lire[1] for every five hundred of these paper wrappers,
written in large and regular characters. But this work wearied him, and
he often complained of it to his family at dinner.

[1] Sixty cents.

"My eyes are giving out," he said; "this night work is killing me." One
day his son said to him, "Let me work instead of you, papa; you know
that I can write like you, and fairly well." But the father answered:--

"No, my son, you must study; your school is a much more important thing
than my wrappers; I feel remorse at robbing you of a single hour; I
thank you, but I will not have it; do not mention it to me again."

The son knew that it was useless to insist on such a matter with his
father, and he did not persist; but this is what he did. He knew that
exactly at midn