the lesson. I should have liked to
say something to him, but I did not know what. I laid one hand on his
arm, and whispered in his ear:--

"Don't cry, Garrone."

He made no reply, and without raising his head from the bench he laid
his hand on mine and kept it there a while. At the close of school, no
one addressed him; all the boys hovered round him respectfully, and in
silence. I saw my mother waiting for me, and ran to embrace her; but she
repulsed me, and gazed at Garrone. For the moment I could not understand
why; but then I perceived that Garrone was standing apart by himself and
gazing at me; and he was gazing at me with a look of indescribable
sadness, which seemed to say: "You are embracing your mother, and I
shall never embrace mine again! You have still a mother, and mine is
dead!" And then I understood why my mother had thrust me back, and I
went out without taking her hand.

GIUSEPPE MAZZINI.

Saturday, 29th.

This morning, also, Garrone came to school with a pale face and his eyes
swollen with weeping, and he hardly cast a glance at the little gifts
which we had placed on his desk to console him. But the teacher had
brought a page from a book to read to him in order to encourage him. He
first informed us that we are to go to-morrow at one o'clock to the
town-hall to witness the award of the medal for civic valor to a boy who
has saved a little child from the Po, and that on Monday he will dictate
the description of the festival to us instead of the monthly story. Then
turning to Garrone, who was standing with drooping head, he said to
him:--

"Make an effort, Garrone, and write down what I dictate to you as well
as the rest."

We all took our pens, and the teacher dictated.

"Giuseppe Mazzini, born in Genoa in 1805, died in Pisa in 1872, a grand,
patriotic soul, the mind of a great writer, the first inspirer and
apostle of the Italian Revolution; who, out of love for his country,
lived for forty years poor, exiled, persecuted, a fugitive heroically
steadfast in his principles and in his resolutions. Giuseppe Mazzini,
who adored his mother, and who derived from her all that there was
noblest and purest in her strong and gentle soul, wrote as follows to a
faithful friend of his, to console him in the greatest of misfortunes.
These are almost his exact words:--

"'My friend, thou wilt never more behold thy mother on this earth. That
is the terrible truth. I do not attempt to see thee, becaus