'That will do very nicely,' said Andrea, trying to repress the
convulsive trembling of his limbs and crouching closer over the fire.
The presence of the old man in this hour of misery and distress moved
him singularly. It was an emotion somewhat similar to that which, in the
presence of some very kind and sympathetic person, affects a man
determined upon suicide. Never before had the old man brought back to
him so strongly the recollection of his father, the memory of the
beloved dead, his grief for the loss of a great and good friend. Never
so much as now had he felt the want of that comforting voice, that
paternal hand. What would his father say could he see his son thus
crushed under the weight of a nameless distress? How would he have
sought to relieve him--what would he have done?
His thoughts turned to the dead father with boundless yearning and
regret. And he had not the shadow of a suspicion that in the very
teachings of that father lay the primary cause of his wretchedness.
Terenzio brought the tea. He then proceeded slowly to arrange the bed
with a care and solicitude that were almost womanly, forgetting nothing,
as if he wished to ensure to his master refreshing and unbroken slumbers
till the morrow.
Andrea watched him with growing emotion. 'Go to bed now, Terenzio,' he
said. 'I shall not want anything more.
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