er boys, by losing soldi, then, gradually, from stone fights you
will come to knives, from gambling to other vices, and from other vices
to--theft."

Ferruccio stood listening three paces away, leaning against a cupboard,
with his chin on his breast and his brows knit, being still hot with
wrath from the brawl. A lock of fine chestnut hair fell across his
forehead, and his blue eyes were motionless.

"From gambling to theft!" repeated his grandmother, continuing to weep.
"Think of it, Ferruccio! Think of that scourge of the country about
here, of that Vito Mozzoni, who is now playing the vagabond in the town;
who, at the age of twenty-four, has been twice in prison, and has made
that poor woman, his mother, die of a broken heart--I knew her; and his
father has fled to Switzerland in despair. Think of that bad fellow,
whose salute your father is ashamed to return: he is always roaming with
miscreants worse than himself, and some day he will go to the galleys.
Well, I knew him as a boy, and he began as you are doing. Reflect that
you will reduce your father and mother to the same end as his."

Ferruccio held his peace. He was not at all remorseful at heart; quite
the reverse: his misdemeanors arose rather from superabundance of life
and audacity than from an evil mind; and his father had managed him
badly in precisely this particular, that, holding him capable, at
bottom, of the finest sentiments, and also, when put to the proof, of a
vigorous and generous action, he left the bridle loose upon his neck,
and waited for him to acquire judgment for himself. The lad was good
rather than perverse, but stubborn; and it was hard for him, even when
his heart was oppressed with repentance, to allow those good words which
win pardon to escape his lips, "If I have done wrong, I will do so no
more; I promise it; forgive me." His soul was full of tenderness at
times; but pride would not permit it to manifest itself.

"Ah, Ferruccio," continued his grandmother, perceiving that he was thus
dumb, "not a word of penitence do you utter to me! You see to what a
condition I am reduced, so that I am as good as actually buried. You
ought not to have the heart to make me suffer so, to make the mother of
your mother, who is so old and so near her last day, weep; the poor
grandmother who has always loved you so, who rocked you all night long,
night after night, when you were a baby a few months old, and who did
not eat for amusing you,--you do