"Now we'll have supper!" said the widow, rousing herself. She got up, lighted a rude lamp of blackened iron, and prepared the meal; potatoes, always potatoes, for two days Olì had eaten nothing but potatoes, and a couple of chestnuts.
"Anania is your relation?" asked the girl, after they had eaten for some time in silence.
"Yes, a distant relation of my husband's. He's from Argosolo, not Fonni. But," said the widow, shaking her head contemptuously, "Anania's not at all like the blessed one! My man would have hung himself from an oak tree sooner than do this vile action of Anania's, my poor sister!"
Olì burst into tears. She retired to the chimney corner, and when little Zuanne seated himself near her, she drew his head to her knee, and held one of his little hard, dirty hands, thinking of her lost little brothers.
"They are like little naked birds," she cried, "left in the nest when their mother is shot and doesn't come back. Oh, who will feed them? The little one can't even undress himself!"
"Then he can sleep in his clothes," said the widow grimly; "what are you crying for, idiot? You should have thought of all that before; it's useless now. You must be patient. The Lord God doesn't forget even the birds in the nest."
"What a storm! What a storm!" lamented Olì; then asked suddenly, "Do you believe in ghosts, Aunt Grathia?"
"I?" said the widow, putting out the lamp and resuming her spindle, "I believe neither in the dead nor in the living."
Zuanne lifted his head and said softly, "I'm here," then hid his face again in Olì's lap.
The widow continued her recital.