"What do you want?" Could this be his father? Anania looked at him shyly, then pronounced the words his mother had taught him. "I am the son of Olì Derios." The two men who were turning the screw stopped suddenly and one of them cried-- "Your brat!" The tall man threw his pole down, approached the child, stared, shook him and asked-- "Who has sent you here? What do you want? Where's your mother?" "She's outside. She's coming." The oil-miller rushed out, followed by the boy with the red cap. But Olì had disappeared; and nothing more was heard of her. Learning what had occurred, Aunt Tatàna, the oil-miller's wife, came to the mill. She was a woman not young, but still beautiful, fair and plump, with soft, warm brown eyes surrounded by little wrinkles. On her upper lip was a very faint golden moustache. Her manner was quiet, but cheerful and kind. She put her hands on Anania's shoulders, bent down and examined him. "Don't cry, poor little man!" she said gently. "Mother will come in a few minutes! Be quiet, you!" she added, turning to the men and the boy, who were inclined to meddle. Anania wept inconsolably and answered no questions. The boy kept staring at him with wicked blue eyes and a mocking smile on his round rosy face. "Where has she gone? Isn't she coming? Where shall I find her?" sobbed the deserted child desperately. Something must have happened to his mother; she had been frightened; where could she be? Why didn't she come? And this horrible, oily, rough man--was this his father? But the coaxing and gentle words of Aunt Tatàna comforted him a little. He stopped crying, and rubbed the tears all over his cheeks in his usual way; then thought of flight. The woman, the oil-miller, the two men, and the boy were all talking loud. They swore, laughed, disputed. "He's your own child. He's just like you!" said the woman, turning to her husband. But the miller cried-- "I don't want him! I tell you I don't want him!" "Have you no heart? Holy Saint Catharine! can men be so cruel?" said Aunt Tatàna, jesting but serious. "Ah, Anania, that's you all over! You are always yourself!" "Who else would you have me be?" he growled, "Well, I'm going for the police." "You shan't go for the police, stupid! Wash your dirty linen at home, please!" He insisted, so she said, temporising, "Well, well, go for the police to-morrow. At present finish your work; and remember the words of King Solomon about leaving the evening wrath till the morning." The three men returned to their work; but while the miller stirred the olives under the wheel, he muttered and swore, and the others laughed. The woman said quietly-- "You are making bad worse. You have only yourself to blame. By Saint Catharine it's I who ought to be offended! Remember, Anania, that God doesn't leave wages till Saturday!" Then she turned to the child who was crying again.