Anania was laughing for joy at being publicly addressed by his godfather and favourably regarded by Signora Carboni. "What are you going to do with yourself, little devil?" Anania hung his head, then looked up with the bright eyes which Aunt Tatàna's ministrations had quite cured of their weakness. Then he tried to hide behind his parent. "Well, answer your godfather!" said the miller, shaking him. "What do you intend to do with yourself?" "Will you be a miller?" suggested the lady. He shook his head vigorously. "You don't like that? A farmer perhaps?" Still no. "Well, perhaps you want to become a scholar," said his father, diplomatically. "Yes." "Bravo!" said Signor Carboni. "You intend to be a scholar. A priest, I suppose?" "No." "A lawyer?" prompted the miller. "Yes." "The deuce! I said he had bright eyes! So you intend to be a lawyer, little mouse?" "Ah, my boy, we're too poor," said the miller with a sigh. "If the child has the wish. Providence will assist him," said the _padrone_. "----will assist him," repeated the Signora like an echo. These words decided Anania's destiny, and he never forgot them. The olive press was shut down for the year and the miller turned into a farmer. Fierce sunshine was making the grass yellow. Bees and wasps buzzed round Aunt Tatàna's little house; the elder tree in the courtyard wore the wondrous lace of its tiny flowers. The company which used to meet at the mill now assembled in the courtyard; Uncle Pera with his cudgel, Efès and Nanna generally drunk, the handsome shoemaker, Bustianeddu and his father, as well as other persons from the neighbourhood. Maestro Pane had set up a workshop in a cellar opposite the courtyard. All day long was a coming and going of people, who laughed, talked, quarrelled, and swore.