Looking out over the distance he thought he saw the _nuraghe_ near Olì's old home. At meal-times, or during the midday rest, when they stretched themselves under the sounding pine-trees, he questioned his son about his life at Fonni. Anania was shy with his father and seldom dared to meet his eyes; but once pushed into the path of recollection, he chattered willingly, abandoning himself to the homesick pleasure of telling about the past. He remembered everything, the village, the widow's house and her stories, Zuanne of the big ears, the _carabiniere_, the friars, the convent court, the chestnuts, the goats, the mountains, the candle factory. But in spite of the miller's suggestions he spoke little of his mother. "Well, did she beat you?" "Never! Never!" "I'm sure she beat you." The child perjured himself swearing he spoke truth. "Tell me, what did she do all day?" "She went out to work." "Did the _carabiniere_ want to marry her?" "Oh, no. He said to me, 'Tell your mother to come here. I want to talk to her.'" "What did she say when you told her?" asked the man with some anxiety. "She was as mad as a dog." "Ah!" He sighed. He was relieved hearing she had not gone to talk to the _carabiniere_. Yes; he was still fond of her. He still remembered her clear and burning eyes; he remembered her little brothers; he remembered her father so sorrowful and so poor. But what could he do? Had he been free he'd have married her. As it was, he had to desert her. It was vain to think any more about it. They finished their frugal meal; then he said to the child: "Run down there to that fig tree, look and you'll see a very very old house. Root about in the ground there. Perhaps you'll find something!" The boy sped away, glad to leave the grave, toil-stained man. And the father thought: "Innocents find treasures easily. If we could find a treasure, then I'd hand over a good lot to Olì, and if my wife were to die, I'd marry her. It was I who made her go wrong." But Anania found nothing. Towards evening, father and son went slowly home, following the broad white road, the depth of which was flooded with twilight gold. Aunt Tatàna had hot supper waiting for them and a fire crackling on the dean swept hearth. She blew Anania's nose, washed his eyes, told her husband the events of the day. Nanna had tumbled into the fire, Efès had a new pair of shoes, Uncle Pera had beaten a boy. Signor Carboni had been to the mill to look at the horse. "He says the beast has grown terribly thin." "That's all the work he has done. What does the _padrone_ expect? Even animals are flesh and blood." After supper the olive-miller had forgotten all about Olì and her woes. He went to the tavern. Aunt Tatàna got her distaff, and told stories to the son of her adoption. Bustianeddu came to listen also. "Once upon a time there was a king with seven golden eyes on his forehead like stars;" and so forth.