Sunday, 28th.
The month of May could not have had a better ending than my visit of
this morning. We heard a jingling of the bell, and all ran to see what
it meant. I heard my father say in a tone of astonishment:--
"You here, Giorgio?"
Giorgio was our gardener in Chieri, who now has his family at Condove,
and who had just arrived from Genoa, where he had disembarked on the
preceding day, on his return from Greece, where he has been working on
the railway for the last three years. He had a big bundle in his arms.
He has grown a little older, but his face is still red and jolly.
My father wished to have him enter; but he refused, and suddenly
inquired, assuming a serious expression:
"How is my family? How is Gigia?"
"She was well a few days ago," replied my mother.
Giorgio uttered a deep sigh.
"Oh, God be praised! I had not the courage to present myself at the
Deaf-mute Institution until I had heard about her. I will leave my
bundle here, and run to get her. It is three years since I have seen my
poor little daughter! Three years since I have seen any of my people!"