oked at me as much as to say, 'So six years of suffering are
not sufficient to cleanse my hands!' but with so poignant an expression
of pain did he gaze at me, that I instantly extended my hand and took
the little object. This is it."

We looked attentively at the inkstand: it seemed to have been carved
with the point of a nail, and with, great patience; on its top was
carved a pen lying across a copy-book, and around it was written: "_To
my teacher. A memento of No. 78. Six years!_" And below, in small
letters, "_Study and hope._"

The master said nothing more; we went away. But all the way from
Moncalieri to Turin I could not get that prisoner, standing at his
little window, that farewell to his master, that poor inkstand made in
prison, which told so much, out of my head; and I dreamed of them all
night, and was still thinking of them this morning--far enough from
imagining the surprise which awaited me at school! No sooner had I taken
my new seat, beside Derossi, and written my problem in arithmetic for
the monthly examination, than I told my companion the story of the
prisoner and the inkstand, and how the inkstand was made, with the pen
across the copy-book, and the inscription around it, "Six years!"
Derossi sprang up at these words, and began to look first at me and then
at Crossi, the son of the vegetable-vender, who sat on the bench in
front, with his back turned to us, wholly absorbed on his problem.

"Hush!" he said; then, in a low voice, catching me by the arm, "don't
you know that Crossi spoke to me day before yesterday of having caught a
glimpse; of an inkstand in the hands of his father, who has returned
from America; a conical inkstand, made by hand, with a copy-book and a
pen,--that is the one; six years! He said that his father was in
America; instead of that he was in prison: Crossi was a little boy at
the time of the crime; he does not remember it; his mother has deceived
him; he knows nothing; let not a syllable of this escape!"

I remained speechless, with my eyes fixed on Crossi. Then Derossi solved
his problem, and passed it under the bench to Crossi; he gave him a
sheet of paper; he took out of his hands the monthly story, _Daddy's
Nurse_, which the teacher had given him to copy out, in order that he
might copy it in his stead; he gave him pens, and stroked his shoulder,
and made me promise on my honor that I would say nothing to any one; and
when we left school, he said hastily to me:--