tion by accident, by counting the wrappers twice; and then all would come to a natural end, without any act of his will, which he did not feel the courage to exert. And thus he went on.
But one evening at dinner his father spoke a word which was decisive so far as he was concerned. His mother looked at him, and it seemed to her that he was more ill and weak than usual. She said to him, “Giulio, you are ill.” And then, turning to his father, with anxiety: “Giulio is ill. See how pale he is! Giulio, my dear, how do you feel?”
His father gave a hasty glance, and said: “It is his bad conscience that produces his bad health. He was not thus when he was a studious scholar and a loving son.”
“But he is ill!” exclaimed the mother.
“I don't care anything about him any longer!” replied the father.
This remark was like a stab in the heart to the poor boy. Ah! he cared nothing any more. His father, who once had trembled at the mere sound of a cough from him! He no longer loved him; there was no more doubt about it; he was dead in his father's heart.
“Ah, no! my father,” said the boy to himself, his heart oppressed with anguish, “now all is over indeed; I cannot live without your affection; I must have it all back. I will tell you all; I will deceive you no longer. I will study as of old, come what may, if you will only love me once more, my poor father! Oh, this time I am quite sure of my resolution!”
Nevertheless he rose that night again, by force of
