So he took her to his kinswoman, a widow with a little boy of four. When Olì saw this child, dirty, ragged, all eyes and ears, she thought of her little brothers and she wept. Ah! who now would care for the little motherless ones? Who would bake their bread, or wash their little garments in the river? And whatever would become of her father, the poor widower, so feverish and unhappy? Ah, well----Olì cried for a day and a night. Then she raised her head and looked about her with darkened eyes. Anania had gone away. The widow, pale and thin, with the face of a spectre framed by a yellow handkerchief, sat spinning before a wretched fire of twigs. All round was misery, rags, dirt. Great cobwebs hung trembling from the smoke-blackened tiled roof. A few sticks of wooden furniture gave scanty comfort. The boy with the big ears never spoke or laughed. He was already dressed in the costume of the place with a sheepskin cap. His only amusement was roasting chestnuts in the hot ashes. "Have patience, daughter; it's the way of the world!" said Aunt Grathia the widow, not raising her eyes from her distaff. "Oh! you'll see far worse things if you live. We are born to suffer. When I was a girl I also laughed; then I cried; now both laughing and crying are over." Olì felt her heart freeze. Oh, what griefs! what immense griefs! Outside, night was falling. It was bitter cold. The wind roared in the chimney with the voice of a stormy sea. In the murky brightness of the fire, the widow went on with her spinning, her mind busy with memory. Olì crouched on the ground, and she too remembered--the warm night of San Giovanni--the scent of the laurel--the light of the smiling stars. Little Zuanne's chestnuts burst among the ashes which strewed the hearth--the wind battered furiously at the door, like a monster scouring the night. After a long silence the widow again spoke. "I also belong to a good family. This boy's father was called Zuanne. Sons, you know, should always have their father's name, so that they may grow up like them. Ah, yes! my husband was a very distinguished man. He was tall as a poplar tree. Look, there's his coat hanging against the wall." Olì looked round, and there, on the earthen wall, she saw a long cloak of _orbace_,[5] among whose folds the spiders had woven their dusky veil. "I shall never take it down," continued the widow, "not though I am dying of cold. My sons may wear it when they are as clever as their father." "But what was their father?" asked Olì.