aster; "do you see this trembling?" and he showed
us his hands. "This is a bad sign. It seized on me three years ago,
while I was still teaching school. At first I paid no attention to it; I
thought it would pass off. But instead of that, it stayed and kept on
increasing. A day came when I could no longer write. Ah! that day on
which I, for the first time, made a blot on the copy-book of one of my
scholars was a stab in the heart for me, my dear sir. I did drag on for
a while longer; but I was at the end of my strength. After sixty years
of teaching I was forced to bid farewell to my school, to my scholars,
to work. And it was hard, you understand, hard. The last time that I
gave a lesson, all the scholars accompanied me home, and made much of
me; but I was sad; I understood that my life was finished. I had lost my
wife the year before, and my only son. I had only two peasant
grandchildren left. Now I am living on a pension of a few hundred lire.
I no longer do anything; it seems to me as though the days would never
come to an end. My only occupation, you see, is to turn over my old
schoolbooks, my scholastic journals, and a few volumes that have been
given to me. There they are," he said, indicating his little library;
"there are my reminiscences, my whole past; I have nothing else
remaining to me in the world."

Then in a tone that was suddenly joyous, "I want to give you a surprise,
my dear Signor Bottini."

He rose, and approaching his desk, he opened a long casket which
contained numerous little parcels, all tied up with a slender cord, and
on each was written a date in four figures.

After a little search, he opened one, turned over several papers, drew
forth a yellowed sheet, and handed it to my father. It was some of his
school work of forty years before.

At the top was written, _Alberto Bottini, Dictation, April 3, 1838_. My
father instantly recognized his own large, schoolboy hand, and began to
read it with a smile. But all at once his eyes grew moist. I rose and
inquired the cause.

He threw one arm around my body, and pressing me to his side, he said:
"Look at this sheet of paper. Do you see? These are the corrections made
by my poor mother. She always strengthened my _l_'s and my _t_'s. And
the last lines are entirely hers. She had learned to imitate my
characters; and when I was tired and sleepy, she finished my work for
me. My sainted mother!"

And he kissed the page.

"See here," said the teach