One evening—it was the 14th of December—I was returning to the Badiola with Federico, when we perceived before us, in the avenue, a man whom we recognized to be Giovanni di Scordio.
"Giovanni!" cried my brother.
The old man stopped. We approached.
"Good evening, Giovanni. What brings you here?"
The old man smiled, timid, embarrassed, as if we had detected him doing wrong.
"I came," he stammered, "I came to ask about my godson."
He was very much ashamed. One would have thought that he was asking pardon for his temerity.
"You wish to see him?" asked Federico, in a low voice, certain of having understood the sweet and sad sentiment which stirred the heart of the deserted grandfather.
"No, no—I only came to ask——"
"Don't you wish to see him?"