As a boy he had loved
flowers, but, after entering the seminary, he had thought no more about
them--thought no more about them for forty years. The night before
Benedetto's visit he had dreamed of the big rose garden in which his
childhood had been spent. The white roses were all bending towards him,
and gazing at him in the dream-world, as pious souls gaze with curiosity
on a pilgrim in the world of shadows. They said to him: "Where are yon
going? where are you going, poor friend? Why do you not return to us?"
On waking he had felt a longing for roses, a tender longing that moved
him to tears. And how many roses now lay on his bed, all through the
kindness of a saintly person, how many beautiful, sweet-smelling roses!
He was silent, gazing fixedly at Benedetto, his lips parted, his eyes
shining with a painful question: "You know, you understand, what do you
think of me? Do you believe there is hope of pardon for me?"
Benedetto, bending over the sick man, began to talk to him and caress
him. The stream of gentle words flowed on and on in a varying tone,
sometimes of joy, sometimes of pain.
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