"Oh, very well. It's better to waste your time with that scum Agata, than to come and visit your benefactors." "Pshaw!" said Anania, leaning against the window. The servant was insulting as she had been that long ago night when he and Bustianeddu had come for the basin of soup. Nothing was changed. He was still a dependent, an object of charity. "But I'm grown up!" he thought. "I can renounce it all, go to work, be a soldier--anything that's not abject!" He moved from the window, brushing against the writing desk, which was already illuminated by the moon. Among the papers, untidily tossed about, he spied a pink envelope lined with green. The blood rushed to his face. His ears burned, he shook from head to foot. Mechanically he bent and took up the envelope. Yes, it was _that_ one, torn and empty. He felt as if he were touching the remains of some sacred thing which had been violated and destroyed. It was all over! His soul was empty and torn to pieces like this envelope. Suddenly, brightness flooded the room. Margherita had come in! He tried to drop the envelope, but perceived that the girl had seen it in his hand. Shame now was added to his grief. "Good evening," said Margherita, placing a lamp on the desk; "they've left you in the dark." "Good evening," he murmured. He resolved to explain, then to escape, never to be seen in this house again. "Take a seat." He looked at her in astonishment. Yes, it certainly was Margherita. At that moment he hated her. "Forgive me," he stammered, "I didn't do it intentionally. I'm not a beast; but I saw this--this envelope, and I couldn't help--looking----" "Is it yours?" "Yes." Margherita blushed and seemed confused; but Anania as if freed from a burden began to recover his wits. Wounded pride counselled him to assert the sonnet a jest. But Margherita in her walking dress, with her small waist and her bright green ribbon was so beautiful and so rosy that his hatred all disappeared. He wished he might put the lamp out and be alone with her in the moonlight, he wished he might fall at her feet and name her with sweetest names. But he couldn't, he couldn't! though he saw she also was raising and dropping her eyes in delicious alarm, expecting his cry of love. "Did your father read it?" he whispered. "Yes, and he laughed," she answered in the same tone. "Did he laugh?" "Yes, he laughed. Then he gave it to me and said, 'Who in the world has sent it?'" "And you--you----?" "I----" They spoke anxiously and very low, already involved in a delicious conspiracy. Suddenly Margherita changed her voice. "Oh, it's Papa! Anania is here," she cried, running to the door. She hurried out, and the boy remained in the greatest perturbation. He felt the warm, soft hand of his godfather clasping his own, and he saw the blue eyes and the shining gold chain. But he hardly heard the good advice and the pleasantries with which Margherita's father favoured him.