I happened to be quite free that morning, and thinking that a little walk before luncheon could do me no harm after the hospital air, I followed him at a short distance across the Seine. [Footnote: Seine. Paris is on the River Seine. "buon giorno": "Good day."] Once or twice I nearly caught him up, and all but tapped him on the shoulder, with a "Buon giorno, Don Gaetano!" Yet, without exactly knowing why, I drew back at the last moment and let him get a few paces ahead of me again. We had just crossed the Place Maubert [Footnote: Place Maubert: Boulevard St. Germain: streets in Paris.] and turned into the Boulevard St. Germain; the boulevard was full of people, so that, without being noticed, I could approach him quite close. He was standing before an elegant confectioners' shop, and to my surprise he entered without hesitation. I took up my position before the shop window, alongside some shivering street arabs [Footnote: Street Arabs. What is meant by this term?] who stood there, absorbed in the contemplation of the unattainable delicacies within, and I watched the old man carefully untie his pocket-handkerchief and lay the little girl's gift upon the counter. I had hardly time to draw back before he came out with a red paper bag of sweets in his hand, and with rapid steps he started off in the direction of the Jardin des Plantes. I was very much astonished at what I had seen, and my curiosity made me follow him. He slackened his pace at one of the little slums behind Hopital de la Pitie, [Footnote: Hopital de la Pitie: literally, "Hospital of Pity."] and I saw him disappear into a dirty old house. I waited outside a minute or two and then I groped my way through the pitch-dark entrance, climbed up a filthy staircase, and found a door slightly ajar. An icy, dark room, in the middle three ragged little children crouched together around a half-extinct braziero, [Footnote: Brazier: a pan for burning coals. Tuscan. Tuscany is one of the divisions of northern Italy.] in the corner the only furniture in the room--a clean iron bedstead, with crucifix and rosary hung on the wall above it, and by the window an image of the Madonna adorned with gaudy paper flowers; I was in Italy, in my poor, exiled Italy. And in the purest Tuscan the eldest sister informed me that Don Gaetano lived in the garret. I went up there and knocked, but got no answer, so I opened the door myself. The room was brightly lit by a blazing fire. With his back towards the door, Don Gaetano was on his knees before the stove busy heating a saucepan over the fire; beside him on the floor lay an old mattress with the well-known Abruzzi cloak thrown over it, and close by, spread out on a newspaper, were various delicacies--an orange, walnuts, and raisins, and there also was the red paper bag. Don Gaetano dropped a lump of sugar into the saucepan, stirred it with a stick, and in a persuasive voice I heard him say, "Che bella roba, che bella roba,