they'll go back to sit by the ashes of their hearths, idle, and good for nothing. Come on, donkeys!' They went on. Corleddu was right, the guide was a traitor. Soldiers were waiting in the rich man's house. There was a fight and many of the robbers were wounded; others were recognized, one was killed. Lest he should be recognized, his comrades stripped him, cut off his head, and buried it and his clothes far away in the forest. My husband was recognized, so after that he had to become a bandit. I lost my baby." The widow had stopped spinning, her spindle fell on her lap and she spread out her hands to the fire. Olì shuddered with cold, with horror, with a fearful pleasure. How dreadful, how poetic, was all this the widow was telling! Olì had always imagined robbers were wicked. No, they were brave, wise, pushed by destiny; just as she herself was being pushed---- "Now we'll have supper!" said the widow, rousing herself. She got up, lighted a rude lamp of blackened iron, and prepared the meal; potatoes, always potatoes, for two days Olì had eaten nothing but potatoes, and a couple of chestnuts. "Anania is your relation?" asked the girl, after they had eaten for some time in silence. "Yes, a distant relation of my husband's. He's from Argosolo, not Fonni. But," said the widow, shaking her head contemptuously, "Anania's not at all like the blessed one! My man would have hung himself from an oak tree sooner than do this vile action of Anania's, my poor sister!" Olì burst into tears. She retired to the chimney corner, and when little Zuanne seated himself near her, she drew his head to her knee, and held one of his little hard, dirty hands, thinking of her lost little brothers. "They are like little naked birds," she cried, "left in the nest when their mother is shot and doesn't come back. Oh, who will feed them? The little one can't even undress himself!" "Then he can sleep in his clothes," said the widow grimly; "what are you crying for, idiot? You should have thought of all that before; it's useless now. You must be patient. The Lord God doesn't forget even the birds in the nest." "What a storm! What a storm!" lamented Olì; then asked suddenly, "Do you believe in ghosts, Aunt Grathia?" "I?" said the widow, putting out the lamp and resuming her spindle, "I believe neither in the dead nor in the living." Zuanne lifted his head and said softly, "I'm here," then hid his face again in Olì's lap. The widow continued her recital. "After that I had a son. His name is Fidele, and he's eight years old and has gone to work at a sheepfold. Then I had this one. We are very poor now, sister. My husband wasn't dishonest, you know; he had lived on his own property, and that's why we had to sell everything except just this house." "How did he die?" asked the girl, caressing the head of the apparently sleeping child.