“He means that the nearest neighbors were too far off to see the fire,” Norwood explained. “It’s likely enough, in these hills!” Again he asked: “But the barn? Why didn’t the barn burn, too?”
“No burn-a de barn; de wind dat-a way—” He made an expressive gesture. “De wind-a blow! De barn no burn.”
“That’s plain enough,” said Norwood. “Well, I am mighty sorry for you, my friend. What can we do to help you? What are you going to do with the baby?”
The old man seemed to become aware for the first time of the child in Christine’s arms. “Where you fin’-a heem?” he asked.
“My wife found him, back there in the manger where the poor mother laid him for safety, I suppose. What are you going to do with him?”
“Me not-a do! He not-a my babee!”
“Good Lord, man! He is some relation to you, isn’t he? Your grandchild, perhaps?”
“Ma! No-o! Maria, Stefano, come from Ascoli! Me”—tapping his breast in a magnificent gesture—“Me Siciliano!”
Christine looked up and gave a little eager cry. “You are not related? He isn’t your baby, then, and you don’t want him?”
“Wait, dear! Make sure, first, before you set your hopes too high.” Norwood understood what was passing in her mind, and he added to the old man: “You are not related? What are you doing here, then?”