o understand each other, one
unfortunate to comprehend another unfortunate. How is she getting on,
then? How is she?"

My father smiled, and replied:--

"I shall not tell you anything about it; you will see; go, go; don't
waste another minute!"

We took our departure; the institute is close by. As we went along with
huge strides, the gardener talked to me, and grew sad.

"Ah, my poor Gigia! To be born with such an infirmity! To think that I
have never heard her call me _father_; that she has never heard me call
her _my daughter_; that she has never either heard or uttered a single
word since she has been in the world! And it is lucky that a charitable
gentleman was found to pay the expenses of the institution. But that is
all--she could not enter there until she was eight years old. She has
not been at home for three years. She is now going on eleven. And she
has grown? Tell me, she has grown? She is in good spirits?"

"You will see in a moment, you will see in a moment," I replied,
hastening my pace.

"But where is this institution?" he demanded. "My wife went with her
after I was gone. It seems to me that it ought to be near here."

We had just reached it. We at once entered the parlor. An attendant came
to meet us.

"I am the father of Gigia Voggi," said the gardener; "give me my
daughter instantly."

"They are at play," replied the attendant; "I will go and inform the
matron." And he hastened away.

The gardener could no longer speak nor stand still; he stared at all
four walls, without seeing anything.

The door opened; a teacher entered, dressed in black, holding a little
girl by the hand.

Father and daughter gazed at one another for an instant; then flew into
each other's arms, uttering a cry.

The girl was dressed in a white and reddish striped material, with a
gray apron. She is a little taller than I. She cried, and clung to her
father's neck with both arms.

Her father disengaged himself, and began to survey her from head to
foot, panting as though he had run a long way; and he exclaimed: "Ah,
how she has grown! How pretty she has become! Oh, my dear, poor Gigia!
My poor mute child!--Are you her teacher, signora? Tell her to make
some of her signs to me; for I shall be able to understand something,
and then I will learn little by little. Tell her to make me understand
something with her gestures."

The teacher smiled, and said in a low voice to the girl, "Who is this
man who has come to