reprimands which caused me to return
home with a lump in my throat. His hands were large and stubby. I can
see him now, as he used to enter the schoolroom, place his cane in a
corner and hang his coat on the peg, always with the same gesture. And
every day he was in the same humor,--always conscientious, full of good
will, and attentive, as though each day he were teaching school for the
first time. I remember him as well as though I heard him now when he
called to me: 'Bottini! eh, Bottini! The fore and middle fingers on that
pen!' He must have changed greatly in these four and forty years."

As soon as we reached Condove, we went in search of our old gardener's
wife of Chieri, who keeps a stall in an alley. We found her with her
boys: she made much of us and gave us news of her husband, who is soon
to return from Greece, where he has been working these three years; and
of her eldest daughter, who is in the Deaf-mute Institute in Turin. Then
she pointed out to us the street which led to the teacher's house,--for
every one knows him.

We left the town, and turned into a steep lane flanked by blossoming
hedges.

My father no longer talked, but appeared entirely absorbed in his
reminiscences; and every now and then he smiled, and then shook his
head.

Suddenly he halted and said: "Here he is. I will wager that this is he."
Down the lane towards us a little old man with a white beard and a large
hat was descending, leaning on a cane. He dragged his feet along, and
his hands trembled.

"It is he!" repeated my father, hastening his steps.

When we were close to him, we stopped. The old man stopped also and
looked at my father. His face was still fresh colored, and his eyes were
clear and vivacious.

"Are you," asked my father, raising his hat, "Vincenzo Crosetti, the
schoolmaster?"

The old man raised his hat also, and replied: "I am," in a voice that
was somewhat tremulous, but full.

"Well, then," said my father, taking one of his hands, "permit one of
your old scholars to shake your hand and to inquire how you are. I have
come from Turin to see you."

The old man stared at him in amazement. Then he said: "You do me too
much honor. I do not know--When were you my scholar? Excuse me; your
name, if you please."

My father mentioned his name, Alberto Bottini, and the year in which he
had attended school, and where, and he added: "It is natural that you
should not remember me. But I recollect you so perfectly!"