qually between them. In order to
secure this arrangement the son had made a very large grant to his
mother, declaring that he was only carrying out the paternal wishes,
which had not found a means of expression. This depraved young man, a
spendthrift and a gambler, was already caught in the toils of usurers at
the time of his father's death. In the seven years he survived him he
managed to spend everything, not leaving a penny to his only son,
Franco, who found himself reduced to some twenty thousand _svanziche_,
the fortune of his mother who had died in giving him birth.

"Yes, yes, let us get on," Gilardoni continued. "Three years ago, three
years ago, I say, I received a letter from you. I remember it was the
second of November, all Souls' Day. Curious circumstance, mysterious
circumstance! Very well. That night I went to bed, and dreamed a dream.
I dreamt of your grandfather's letter. Note that I had never thought of
it again. I dreamt I was hunting for it, and that I found it in an old
box I keep in the attic. I read it, still dreaming. It said there was a
great treasure in the cellar of Casa Maironi at Cressogno and that that
treasure was to come to you. I awoke in intense excitement, convinced
that this had been a prophetic dream. I got up, and went to look in the
box. I found nothing; but two days later, being about to sell certain
lands which I owned at Dasio, I got out an old deed of purchase, which
my father kept in the strong-box, and, in turning over the leaves, a
letter fell out. I glanced at the signature and saw: Nobile Franco
Maironi. I read the letter. It was the one in question! Thus you see,
the dream...."

"Well," said Franco, interrupting him, "and what did this letter say?"

The Professor rose, took a match half a cubit long, ran it in among the
live coals in the little fireplace, and lit the lamp.

"I have it here," he said with a great, despairing sigh. "Read it."

He took from his pocket and handed to Franco a small yellowish letter,
without an envelope, and still showing traces of the little red wafer.
The yellow-black lines of writing inside showed through here and there,
almost in relief.

Franco took it, held it near the lamp, and read aloud as follows:

"Dear Carlin,--

"You will find my last will enclosed in this letter. I have
written it in duplicate. One copy I am keeping. This is the
other, and I charge you to publish it if the first be not
forth