Aunt Bachissia came and stood in the doorway; glancing up at the sky, she remarked that it looked threatening, and that there would probably be a storm that night. "Well, I don't care," said Giovanna sullenly. "It may rain every bolt out of heaven!" Then she added more gently: "But may that which I bear be saved from harm." "Upon my soul, you are in a bad humour. What has become of the old witch? I saw you sifting grain." "She has taken it to the 'mill.' She was afraid to let me go for fear I might steal some." "Patience, my daughter; it will not always be like this." "But it is like this, and like this, and I can't stand it any longer. What sort of a life is it? She has honey on her lips and a goad in her hand. 'Work, work, work.' She drives me like a beast of burden, and gives me barley-bread, and water, and no light at night, and bare feet. Oh, as much of all that as ever I want!" Aunt Bachissia listened, unable to offer any consolation. She was, indeed, accustomed to hear these plaints poured into her ears daily. Oh, Aunt Bachissia had been fooled as well! and had to work harder than ever before, though for that she cared little; it was Giovanna's really wretched condition that gave her the most concern. "Patience, patience; better times are coming; no one can rob you of the future." "Bah, what does that amount to? I shall be an old woman by that time,--if I haven't died already of rage! What good will it do to be well off when you're old? You can't enjoy anything then." "Eh! yes, you can, upon my soul," said the other, her green eyes gleaming like a couple of fireflies. "I could enjoy a great many things well enough! Eh, eh! To have nothing to do all day long, and roast meat to eat, and soft bread, and trout, and eels, and to drink white wine, and rosolis, and chocolate----" "Stop!" cried Giovanna, with a groan; and she told how she had been unable to find anything wherewith to quench her burning thirst. "You must have patience," repeated the mother. "That comes from your condition. If you had the most delicious things in the world to choose from--liquors from the King's own table--you would still be thirsty." Giovanna kept gazing up at the house with the portico, her eyes weary and hopeless, and her mouth drawn down sullenly. "Yes, we will have rain to-night," said the other again. "It can rain as much as it wants to." "Is Brontu coming home?" "Yes, he is, and I am going to tell him about everything to-night; yes, I shall speak to him about it this very night." "My soul, you are? And what is it that you are going to speak to him about?" "Why, I am going to tell him that I can't stand it any longer, and if he only wanted me so as to have a servant and nothing else, he will find that he has made a mistake, and--and----"