And it seemed to him that the wind was carrying away his heart, battering it against the granite colossi of the Gennargentu.
On his return he expected to find his mother with the widow. Anxiously he crossed the deserted village and stopped before Aunt Grathia's low black door. The evening was falling sadly. Strong gusts blew down the steep, stony streets. The heaven was pale. It felt like autumn. Anania listened. Silence. Through the chink of the door, he saw the fire's red brightness. Silence.
He went in, and saw only the old woman, who sat spinning, quiet as a spectre.
The coffee pot was gurgling among the embers, and a piece of mutton hung on a wooden spit, dropping its fat upon the burning ashes.
"Well?" said the youth.
"Patience, my jewel of gold! I couldn't find anyone I could trust to take the message. My son is not in the neighbourhood."
"But the driver of the coach?"
"Patience, I tell you!" said the widow, rising and laying her distaff on the stool. "I did ask the driver to tell her she must come here to-morrow. I said, 'Tell her from me to come. Don't say a word about Anania Atonzu! go, son, and God will reward you, for you'll be doing a work of charity.'"
"Did he refuse to do it?"
"No, he said he would. He even promised to drive her up."