It was past midday when I rose from my mossy couch and sauntered leisurely home, where, having partaken of a light lunch, I continued working upon my picture--a large landscape--until sundown. I was at that time the only guest at the inn, and I have no doubt that mine host and his family made as much out of me as they could in one way or another, yet they were as honest as the people in those parts mostly are, and when not occupied with writing home I was in the habit of joining the family circle after supper, when they entertained me with the gossip of the village and stories of brigands, by whom the country was much infested, while I, in return for their information, related to them many things about my own country, my travels, etc. The conversation that I had overheard that morning, however, between the goatherd and his friend I deemed not of sufficient importance to relate to the family; in fact, I had forgotten all about it before I reached the inn. The unscrupulous manner in which people cheated among these simple seeming peasantry rather amused than annoyed me. And as for the simple incident of one peasant borrowing three pauls from another, it was a fact so uninteresting to me, that I never gave the matter a second thought. Little did I imagine that the transaction of the three pauls that I by chance overheard that morning was to be the commencement of one of the drollest waggeries that ever came within my experience. It was more than a week after the incident that I have related occurred that I left my inn one morning to paint out of doors at the distance of a mile or so. As I journeyed along the road, laden with my painting materials, I came in sight of the goatherd's hut, built upon a hill, and though it was yet distant, I descried a figure in the act of leaving the hut, but which I could distinctly see was not the goatherd. The figure had descended the hill, reached the road, and was then making towards me. I had now no difficulty in recognising my friend of whom I had bought the wine. He appeared to be anything but in good spirits, for he advanced scratching his head and with his eyes fixed on the ground. This was our first meeting since our transaction of the barrel of wine, and had I been in a less good humour I might have taxed him with swindling me in good round terms, but with the fresh morning air in my face and the enchanting landscape around me, I felt in no humour to quarrel with anyone. I thought, however, I would make him aware that I knew how he had served me without losing my temper. "_Buon giorno, Antonio_,"--(Good-day, Anthony)--I said, cheerfully. "_Ah! Eccellenza; buon giorno_," replied he, with a sickly attempt at a smile. "You seem a little out of spirits, eh?" said I. "Now, what would you say if I could read your thoughts?" "You read my thoughts, Eccellenza! You joke with me."