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."