He went away running, leaving Anania overwhelmed with grief. A thief, a bastard, a foundling, and now left behind by his friend. It was too much, too much! He began to cry and his tears fell into the soup.
"When, when shall I be able to go?" he sobbed, "when shall I be able to find her?"
"When I'm grown up," he answered himself, more cheerfully, "for the present—it can't be helped."
Having given the soup to Aunt Tatàna, he went to the stable window. Silence. No one was to be seen, nothing was to be heard, in the great garden, damp and moonlit. The mountains showed faintly blue against the vaporous heaven. All was silence and peace. Suddenly from the mill came the voice of Bustianeddu.
"Then he hasn't gone? he hasn't taken the money? He hasn't been into the garden? Suppose I go myself?"
But his courage was not equal to this. He went into the mill and hovered round Aunt Tatàna who was ministering to Efès. She asked him her usual question. "What's the matter with you? Have you the stomachache?"
"Yes! Do let us go in," said Anania.
She saw the child wanted to speak to her and she took him home.
"Jesus! Jesus! Holy Saint Catharine!" cried the good woman when Anania had made his confession, "what has happened to the world? Even the little birds, even the chickens in the egg, go wrong!"
Anania never knew the means by which Aunt Tatàna persuaded Bustianeddu to restore the stolen money. But ever after the friends were on strained terms. They slanged each other and fought about every trifle.