At last came the day of return. Anania left Cagliari almost sick with delight. He feared he might die on the way, might never see the dear mountains, the familiar street, the fair landscape, the face of Margherita.
"Yet if I were to die now," he thought, leaning his forehead on his hand, "she would never forget me—never!"
Fortunately he arrived quite safe and sound. He saw his dear mountains, his wild valleys, the whole fair landscape; and the purple countenance of Nanna who had come to meet him at the station. She had waited for more than an hour. When she saw the lad's handsome face she opened her arms and cried:—
"My little son! my little son!"
"How do you do? Here, catch this!" and to protect himself from her embraces, he tossed into her arms the portmanteau, a parcel, and a basket.
"Come along!" he cried, "you go out that way. I have to go this way. Go on!"
He ran and disappeared, leaving the woman stupefied. Ah! Here he was in the familiar street. She would be waiting at the window, and no witness, not even Nanna, was wanted for that greeting. But how small were the houses of Nuoro! and the streets how narrow and empty! All the better! It's cold too at Nuoro! Spring has come, but it's still pale and delicate like a child who has been ill. Here are some people coming towards him, among them Franziscu Carchide. Franziscu recognizes the young student, begins to make signs of welcome. What a bore!
"Well, how are you? Glad to see you back. How you've grown! Smart too!"
Carchide could not take his eyes off Anania's yellow shoes. The boy was chafing with annoyance. At last he escaped. On! on! His heart beat louder and louder. A woman came to her door, looked at him as he ran by, and said:—
"I declare it's he!"