He looked at me, and did not understand. “It is yours,” I said; “I give it to you.”
Then he looked at my father and mother, in still greater astonishment, and asked me:—
“But why?”
My father said to him:—
“Enrico gives it to you because he is your friend, because he loves you—to celebrate your medal.”
Precossi asked timidly:—
“I may carry it away—home?”
“Of course!” we all responded. He was already at the door, but he dared not go out. He was happy! He begged our pardon with a mouth that smiled and quivered. Garrone helped him to wrap up the train in a handkerchief, and as he bent over, he made the things with which his pockets were filled rattle.
“Some day,” said Precossi to me, “you shall come to the shop to see my father at work. I will give you some nails.”
My mother put a little bunch of flowers into Garrone’s buttonhole, for him to carry to his mother in her name. Garrone said, “Thanks,” in his big voice, without raising his chin from his breast. But all his kind and noble soul shone in his eyes.