"Where are you going, Aunt Joconda?"
"Wait!"
She went off with her limping gait, left the room, returned a minute later with a pitcher full of water which she could scarcely carry.
"But, aunt, why do you do this work? Why give yourself this trouble?"
"The vases require to be watered. If I did not think of them, who would?"
She sprinkled the vases. Her respiration was heavy, and the hoarse panting of her senile chest distressed the young man.
"That will do! That will do!" he said, taking the pitcher from her hands.
They stayed on the balcony, while the water from the vases dropped into the street with a light splash.
"What is that lighted window?" asked George, to break the silence.
"Oh," replied the old woman. "It is Don Defendente Scioli, who is dying."