"Don't you see she's frightened!" murmured Aunt Grathia, as she passed him moving to Olì's side. "Come, come!" she said, tapping the poor thing on the shoulder, "Have courage, daughter, have patience. Crying's no good! He isn't going to eat you. After all, you know, he's the son of your womb. Come! come! Take a little coffee; after that you'll be able to talk. Do me the favour, son Anania, to go out for a little. Then you'll be able to speak better. Go out, jewel of gold!" He did not move. Olì, however, controlled herself somewhat, and when Aunt Grathia brought the coffee she took it, trembling, and drank avidly, looking about her with eyes still frightened, yet sometimes shot with gleams of pleasure. Like all Sardinian women she loved coffee, and Anania, who had inherited the taste, looked at her with some sympathy. He seemed to be watching some wild shy animal, a furtive hare nibbling the grapes in a vineyard, trembling with enjoyment, and with fear of surprise. "More?" asked Aunt Grathia, bending down and speaking as to a child. "Yes? No? If you'd like some more, say so. Here, give me your cup. Get up. Come and wash your eyes, and be quiet. Do you hear? Come, girl!" Olì got up, aided by the old woman, and went straight to the water tub, as she had been accustomed to do twenty years earlier. First, she washed her cup, then herself, drying her face with her ragged apron. Her lips twitched, sobs still swelled her bosom; her red and encircled eyes, enormous in the shrunken face, shunned the cold gaze of her son. He looked at the ragged apron and thought. "She must have new clothes at once, she's perfectly squalid. I've got sixty _lire_ from my pupils at Nuoro. I'll get some more pupils. I'll sell my books. Yes, she must have clothes and shoes; and perhaps she's hungry." As if guessing his thought Aunt Grathia asked Olì-- "Would you like some food? If you would, tell me at once. Don't be so shamefaced. Shame won't feed you! Are you hungry?" "No," replied Olì with trembling lips. Anania was moved hearing that voice. It was a voice of long ago, a far distant voice; her voice. Yes, this woman was she, was the mother, the one true, only mother! Flesh of his flesh, the diseased limb, the rotten yet vital member which tortured him, but from which he could never while he lived set himself free; the member which at his own cost he must try to cure. "Well now, sit down," said Aunt Grathia, drawing two stools to the hearth, "sit here, daughter; and you there, my jewel. Sit here together and talk--" She made Olì sit, but Anania shook his head.