The income of the young curate was next to nothing, for Tombolo was a very poor parish; but he had not been used to luxury. He had planned his priestly life before his ordination, and was busy carrying out the scheme. To study deeply in order to fit himself more fully for preaching; to do as much good as was possible in the confessional and in the pulpit; to help his people both materially and morally, to visit the sick, to succour the poor and to instruct the ignorant--such was the programme, and with all the vigour of his soul he threw himself into the work. The widowed niece of Don Antonio who kept house for her uncle used to see a light burning in the window of Don Giuseppe's poor lodging the last thing at night and the first thing in the morning. "Do you never go to bed, Don Bepi?" she asked at breakfast one day, for the curate took his meals at the rectory. Don Bepi laughed. "I study a good deal," he replied. He confessed later that he slept for four hours, and found it quite sufficient for his needs. "He was as thin as a rake," said the good lady when pressed in after-life for reminiscences, "for he scarcely ate enough to keep body and soul together, and was never off his feet." In the morning he would often ring the church bell for Mass, in order not to disturb the sacristan. Then he would go to fetch Don Antonio, having prepared for him all that was needed. Sometimes he would find his chief unwell and unable to rise. "What is the matter?" he would ask in his cheery way--"another bad night?" "I am afraid I cannot get up," would be the plaintive answer. "Don't try to; stay quiet, and do not worry yourself I will see to everything," the cheery voice would continue. "But you have already one sermon to preach to-day, my Bepi." "What of that? I will preach two." During the days of sickness Don Giuseppe, as well as doing double duty, would himself nurse the poor invalid. How he managed it was known to himself alone. He had not forgotten--there was no chance of forgetting--the deplorable language of his parishioners. The curate mixed with them as much as he could, making friends especially with the young men and the boys. He interested himself in their work and in their play, treating them with such a spirit of friendly comradeship that they would crowd to talk to him whenever he appeared. One day some of them lamented that they could neither read nor write. "Let us start a night school," proposed Don Bepi, "and I will teach you." "It would be too difficult," objected another; "some of us know a little, some less, and others nothing at all." "What of that?" replied the priest. "We will have two classes-those who know something, and those who know nothing. We will get the schoolmaster to take the upper class, and I will teach the alphabet." "Why shouldn't he teach the alphabet?" protested a loyal admirer of Don Giuseppe. Bepi laughed. "The alphabet is hard work," he answered, "I had rather keep it."