The coffee pot was gurgling among the embers, and a piece of mutton hung on a wooden spit, dropping its fat upon the burning ashes. "Well?" said the youth. "Patience, my jewel of gold! I couldn't find anyone I could trust to take the message. My son is not in the neighbourhood." "But the driver of the coach?" "Patience, I tell you!" said the widow, rising and laying her distaff on the stool. "I did ask the driver to tell her she must come here to-morrow. I said, 'Tell her from me to come. Don't say a word about Anania Atonzu! go, son, and God will reward you, for you'll be doing a work of charity.'" "Did he refuse to do it?" "No, he said he would. He even promised to drive her up." "She won't come! You'll see she won't come!" said Anania uneasily. "She'll escape us again! Why didn't I go myself? But there's still time." He wanted to start at once for the Cantoniera, but without difficulty allowed himself to be persuaded to wait. Another sad night passed. Though his limbs were stiff with fatigue he slept little, on that hard pallet where he had been born, on which he wished that this night he might die. The wind shook the roof, roaring like a sea in storm. It reminded Anania of his infancy; the distant terrors, the wintry nights, the touch of his mother who clasped him to her, more for fear than for love. No, she had not loved him. Why delude himself? She had not loved him. Perhaps this had been Olì's worst misfortune, her greatest loss. He felt it, he knew it; and sudden pity rose in his breast for her, who had been the victim of destiny and of men. Had she come to-night, while he was in this mood, her son would have received her tenderly, would have forgiven her. But the long night passed, and a day broke, made melancholy by the wind. He spent long restless hours which he considered among the most distressing of his whole life. During these hours he roamed through the alleys, as if storm driven; he went to the tavern and drank; he returned to the widow's cottage and sat by the fire, shivering feverishly, his nerves in a condition of acute irritation. Even Aunt Grathia could not rest. She wandered about the house, and as soon as the modest midday repast was over, she went forth to meet Olì. "Remember she's afraid of you!" she said to Anania, urging him to great quietness. "Why, my good woman," he answered scornfully, "I shall hardly even look at her! I have very few words to say." More than an hour passed. The young man remembered bitterly the sweet impatient hour he had spent waiting for Aunt Tatàna. Now he panted for the coming of his mother, her coming which once and for all was to end his torments. And all the time he was devoured by the dark desire--that she should not come, should escape him again, should disappear for ever. "In any case, she's ill," he thought with bitter satisfaction, "it's impossible she can live long." The widow came back alone, hurriedly.