But the coaxing and gentle words of Aunt Tatàna comforted him a little. He stopped crying, and rubbed the tears all over his cheeks in his usual way; then thought of flight.
The woman, the oil-miller, the two men, and the boy were all talking loud. They swore, laughed, disputed.
"He's your own child. He's just like you!" said the woman, turning to her husband. But the miller cried—
"I don't want him! I tell you I don't want him!"
"Have you no heart? Holy Saint Catharine! can men be so cruel?" said Aunt Tatàna, jesting but serious. "Ah, Anania, that's you all over! You are always yourself!"
"Who else would you have me be?" he growled, "Well, I'm going for the police."
"You shan't go for the police, stupid! Wash your dirty linen at home, please!"
He insisted, so she said, temporising, "Well, well, go for the police to-morrow. At present finish your work; and remember the words of King Solomon about leaving the evening wrath till the morning."
The three men returned to their work; but while the miller stirred the olives under the wheel, he muttered and swore, and the others laughed. The woman said quietly—
"You are making bad worse. You have only yourself to blame. By Saint Catharine it's I who ought to be offended! Remember, Anania, that God doesn't leave wages till Saturday!"