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dark, trickling corner. "You will never forget Italian, cara bambina," Corti said, "It has entered into your blood."

Chapter Four I reached Castino wearing what everybody considered to be the funniest Italian shoes. Of the little trunk which held my books - Croce, DeSanctis, Manzoni, Leopardi; Suevo and the rest - my mother said, "Why, it's the funniest little thing I ever saw! It's like a little immigrant trunk!" And to her friends as she met them in the village, "Yes, Edith's back and we're so glad to have her home again. You should see the little trunk she brought back with her - just like a little immigrants trunk!"

Perhaps, in very small but significant measure I had become an immigrant to my native country, a graft on m own root. At any rate, the shoes and the trunk, visible traces of my ineptitude, were tactfully stowed