the scholars accompanied me home, and made much of me; but I was sad; I understood that my life was finished. I had lost my wife the year before, and my only son. I had only two peasant grandchildren left. Now I am living on a pension of a few hundred lire. I no longer do anything; it seems to me as though the days would never come to an end. My only occupation, you see, is to turn over my old schoolbooks, my scholastic journals, and a few volumes that have been given to me. There they are,” he said, indicating his little library; “there are my memories, my whole past; I have nothing else left to me in the world.”
Then in a tone that was suddenly joyous, “I want to give you a surprise, my dear Signor Bottini.”
He rose, and approaching his desk, he opened a long casket holding numerous little parcels, all tied up with a slender cord, and each bearing a date in four figures.
After a little search, he opened one, turned over several papers, drew forth a yellowed sheet, and handed it to my father. It was some of his school work of forty years before.
At the top was written, Alberto Bottini, Dictation, April 3, 1838. My father instantly recognized his own large, schoolboy hand, and began to read it with a smile. But all at once his eyes grew moist. I rose and inquired the cause.
He drew one arm around my body, and pressing me to his side, he said: “Look at this sheet of paper. Do you see? These are the corrections made by my poor mother. She always strengthened my l’s and my t’s.
