his meat, broke his bread, and put salt on his plate. In order to
drink, he was obliged to hold the glass with both hands, and even then
he struck his teeth. But he talked constantly, and with ardor, of the
reading-books of his young days; of the notaries of the present day; of
the commendations bestowed on him by his superiors; of the regulations
of late years: and all with that serene countenance, a trifle redder
than at first, and with that gay voice of his, and that laugh which was
almost the laugh of a young man. And my father gazed and gazed at him,
with that same expression with which I sometimes catch him gazing at me,
at home, when he is thinking and smiling to himself, with his face
turned aside.

The teacher allowed some wine to trickle down on his breast; my father
rose, and wiped it off with his napkin. "No, sir; I cannot permit this,"
the old man said, and smiled. He said some words in Latin. And, finally,
he raised his glass, which wavered about in his hand, and said very
gravely, "To your health, my dear engineer, to that of your children, to
the memory of your good mother!"

"To yours, my good master!" replied my father, pressing his hand. And at
the end of the room stood the innkeeper and several others, watching us,
and smiling as though they were pleased at this attention which was
being shown to the teacher from their parts.

At a little after two o'clock we came out, and the master wanted to
escort us to the station. My father gave him his arm once more, and he
again took me by the hand: I carried his cane for him. The people
paused to look on, for they all knew him: some saluted him. At one point
in the street we heard, through an open window, many boys' voices,
reading together, and spelling. The old man halted, and seemed to be
saddened by it.

"This, my dear Signor Bottini," he said, "is what pains me. To hear the
voices of boys in school, and not be there any more; to think that
another man is there. I have heard that music for sixty years, and I
have grown to love it. Now I am deprived of my family. I have no sons."

"No, master," my father said to him, starting on again; "you still have
many sons, scattered about the world, who remember you, as I have always
remembered you."

"No, no," replied the master sadly; "I have no longer a school; I have
no longer any sons. And without sons, I shall not live much longer. My
hour will soon strike."

"Do not say that, master; do not think it,"