a leaden sleep. The master called him loudly; "Coretti!" He
did not hear. The master, irritated, repeated, "Coretti!" Then the son
of the charcoal-man, who lives next to him at home, rose and said:--

"He worked from five until seven carrying faggots." The teacher allowed
him to sleep on, and continued with the lesson for half an hour. Then he
went to Coretti's seat, and wakened him very, very gently, by blowing in
his face. On beholding the master in front of him, he started back in
alarm. But the master took his head in his hands, and said, as he kissed
him on the hair:--

"I am not reproving you, my son. Your sleep is not at all that of
laziness; it is the sleep of fatigue."

MY FATHER.

Saturday, 17th.

Surely, neither your comrade Coretti nor Garrone would ever have
answered their fathers as you answered yours this afternoon.
Enrico! How is it possible? You must promise me solemnly that this
shall never happen again so long as I live. Every time that an
impertinent reply flies to your lips at a reproof from your father,
think of that day which will infallibly come when he will call you
to his bedside to tell you, "Enrico, I am about to leave you." Oh,
my son, when you hear his voice for the last time, and for a long
while afterwards, when you weep alone in his deserted room, in the
midst of those books which he will never open again, then, on
recalling that you have at times been wanting in respect to him,
you, too, will ask yourself, "How is it possible?" Then you will
understand that he has always been your best friend, that when he
was constrained to punish you, it caused him more suffering than it
did you, and that he never made you weep except for the sake of
doing you good; and then you will repent, and you will kiss with
tears that desk at which he worked so much, at which he wore out
his life for his children. You do not understand now; he hides from
you all of himself except his kindness and his love. You do not
know that he is sometimes so broken down with toil that he thinks
he has only a few more days to live, and that at such moments he
talks only of you; he has in his heart no other trouble than that
of leaving you poor and without protection.

And how often, when meditating on this, does he enter your chamber
while you are asleep, and stand there, lamp in hand, gaz