onday, 26th.

However, it is not out of envy, because he got the prize and I did not, that I quarrelled with Coretti this morning. It was not out of envy. But I was in the wrong. The teacher had placed him beside me, and I was writing in my copy-book for calligraphy; he jogged my elbow and made me blot and soil the monthly story, Blood of Romagna, which I was to copy for the little mason, who is ill. I got angry, and said a rude word to him. He replied, with a smile, “I did not do it intentionally.” I should have believed him, because I know him; but it displeased me that he should smile, and I thought:—

“Oh! now that he has had a prize, he has grown saucy!” and a little while afterwards, to revenge myself, I gave him a jog which made him spoil his page. Then, all crimson with wrath, “You did that on purpose,” he said to me, and raised his hand: the teacher saw it; he drew it back. But he added:—

“I shall wait for you outside!” I felt ill at ease; my wrath had simmered away; I repented. No; Coretti could not have done it intentionally. He is good, I thought. I recalled how I had seen him in his own home; how he had worked and helped his sick mother; and then how heartily he had been welcomed in my house; and how he had pleased my father. What would I not have given not to have said that word to him; not to have insulted him thus! And I thought of the advice that my father had given to me: “Have you done wrong?”—“Yes.”—“Then beg his pardon.” But this I did not dare to do; I was ashamed to humiliate myself. I looked at him out of the corner of my eye, and I saw his coat ripped on the shoulder,—perhaps because he had carried too much wood,—and I felt that I loved him; and I said to myself, “Courage!” But the words, “excuse me,” stuck in my throat. He looked at me askance from time to time, and he seemed to me to be more grieved than angry. But at such times I looked malevolently at him, to show him that I was not afraid.

He repeated, “We shall meet outside!” And I said, “We shall meet outside!” But I was thinking of what my father had once said to me, “If you are wronged, defend yourself, but do not fight.”

And I said to myself, “I will defend myself, but I will not fight.” But I was discontented, and I no longer listened to the master. At last the moment of dismissal arrived. When I was alone in the street I perceived that he was following me. I stopped and waited for him, ruler in hand. He approached; I raised my ruler.

“No, Enrico,” he said, with his kindly smile, waving the ruler aside with his hand; “let us be friends again, as before.”

I stood still in amazement, and then I felt what seemed to be a hand dealing a push on my shoulders, and I found myself in his arms. He kissed me, and said:—

“We’ll have no more altercations between us, will we?”

“Never again! never again!” I replied. And we parted content. But when I returned home, and told my father all about it, thinking to give him pleasure, his face clouded over, and he said:—

“You should have been the first to offer your hand, since you were in the wrong.” Then he added, “You should not raise your ruler at a comrade who is better than you are—at the son of a soldier!” and snatching the ruler from my hand, he broke it in two, and hurled it against the wall.