In the meantime Aleko went straight up to the old schoolmaster.
“Kyr Themistocli,” he began, “your coffee is all spilt. It fell from my hand and the bag burst, but this afternoon ….”
But the blind man did not wait to hear what was to happen that afternoon, his arms groped for the boy and finding him, clung about his neck, and the old head fell forward on Aleko’s shoulder.
“I thought I had lost you …. I thought that you would never come back! My boy!… My son!…”
The banker looked from the old man to the boy, with bewildered eyes.
“Why?” he gasped, “I never knew …. Is he yours?”
“Mine? Makari!” exclaimed Kyr Themistocli.
Now when a real Greek says “Makari,” it means so many things that no single word in any other language can translate it. It means, “If only it could be so!” it means, “I could wish for nothing better!” it means, “It is too good to come true!” it means, “Such a thing would be perfect happiness!” It means all this and much more. Some think the word a corruption of “makarios,” meaning blessed, some believe it was taken from old Italian. It is not a dictionary word, but it expresses so much that the old schoolmaster dropped into common speech and said “Makari,” with all his heart.
“But then …” said Nico Spinotti looking from one to the other, “I do not understand. How came the dog here? Is this the boy …?”
Kyr Themistocli left his hand on Aleko’s shoulder, and drew himself up to his full height.