take a new interest in life on the day when Peppino brought home his bride, and when Ricuzzu was born he soon became almost his old self.

“Things it is like that,” said Peppino; “the young ones are coming to dry the eyes that have tears in them because the old ones are going away.”

Brancaccia’s attention was occupied by the tea and the baby, and by trying to follow Peppino’s talk.  He has been giving her English lessons and, though she has not yet got much beyond saying, “Me no speakare l’Inglese,” she is quick enough to know what he is talking about, especially as she has heard most of it before.  She now said a few words in dialect, evidently reminding him of something, and he at once began to tell me about their wedding tour.  He had told me some of it last time I was there, and how he had wanted to take his bride to England and show her London, but they had not time enough, and that journey

has been put off for some future occasion.  They went to Venice, which was a particularly suitable place, because his cousin Vanni was there with his ship, the Sorella di Ninu, unloading a cargo of wine; they crossed by night to Naples, and Peppino showed Brancaccia Pompeii and all the sights; then they went to Rome for a few days and on, through Florence, to Venice.  They stayed there a week, and then Vanni, having unloaded his wine, took them down the Adriatic and brought them safely home again.

“It was sun,” said Peppino, “and we was in Venice, Sammarco Place, where is—how speak you the colomba?—Excuse me, it is the dove.  And there was different other people also—love-people, the young ones that go to the field in the spring to take the flower Margherita, and to be pulling the leaves to know the future, plenty many; also sposi, and some that bring the macchina to make the picture, and the bride was to be standing with the colomba in the hand.  She put the grain in the hand, and would have a colomba that was with his feet in her finger and eat the grain; but the bridegroom was not clever to take the photograph and the colomba was—what is it?—he was finish his grain and flied away, and she was telling to her sposo:

“‘Now you are not clever to take the photograph and you shall be obliged to pay for another packet of grain.’

“In the second time, not only a colomba was in the hand but also another one was stopping in the hat very large with the colomba, too large, I am not certain that the bridegroom was able to take all the photograph.”

Whereupon Brancaccia interposed, producing the result, and I exclaimed:

“Why, it is Brancaccia herself!  I did not know you meant that this happened to you.  I thought you were telling me about other sposi, not about yourselves.”

Then they laughed together, and I saw that Brancaccia, by showing me the photograph, had let out more than was

intended, unless perhaps it was all intended; either way, no harm was done, and I was allowed to put the picture in my pocket.

Carmelo came to clear away the tea, and I said:

“It seems to me, Peppino, that you have a new waiter.  What has become of Letterio?”

“Ah! you do not know about Letterio.  Now I shall tell you.”

At this point it became necessary for Brancaccia to disappear somewhat suddenly with the baby.

“It was festa,” said Peppino, “and Letterio was drinking and his friends were telling to drink some more, and he was drinking plenty much.  Then was he going out in a very hurry and was telling that he would be married very directly and was meeting a girl and was telling: ‘Please, you, marry me this day.’  And the girl was telling: ‘Go away, Letterio, you are a drunk man.’  And he was finding another girl and they was telling the same things—plenty girls—all that day.  Afterwards many weeks are passing and Letterio don’t be asking to be married, he was telling always that he would not be married never, never, never; also with the suspicion that no girl would take him.  Excuse me, it is like the man who was fell down from the horse and was telling that he was go down—was not fell down.  And it was festa again and Letterio was drinking plenty much again and was going on the street again and was meeting a girl again and was telling: ‘Please, you, marry me very directly.’  And the girl was replying: ‘Yes.’“

“But surely,” I exclaimed, “surely they were not so silly as to get married when he was sober, were they?”

It seemed, however, that they were.  To save the expense and avoid the chaff that would have attended a marriage in Castellinaria, they went to the next village for a couple of days and returned married.

“But when the man,” said Peppino, “must be finding the courage in the bottle, this is not a good thing.  The

courage for the happy marriage must be in the heart.  We know that good wine it is sincero, it makes to be speaking the truth; yes, very likely.  But the wine it is sometimes traditore, it can also be telling the—what is bugia?  Excuse me, it is the lie.”

“And so Letterio is married?”

“Look here, he was married.  Now I shall tell you.  Oh! what a bad woman she was!  Impossible to keep her in the albergo.  ‘Please go away, Letterio; I am very sorry; you and your wife also.’  And went away, to his home in Messina and his wife also.  In the winter was coming the disaster, the terremoto, the earthquake, and the city was finished to be consumed and the train was bringing the fugitives all day and all night.  I was down to the station, Brancaccia was making ready the beds, Carmelo was driving them up and was bringing more and then more—broken people, also whole people, all without nothing, very undressed, and the albergo was became a hospital, a refugio, and the doctors were committing operations upon them in the bedrooms and were curing them and curing them till they died and went away in the cimitero—Oh! it was very pitiful—and sometimes they were repairing them and sending them away in the train.  And I was making the journey with the hopeness to un-dig Letterio.  During three days was I searching the mournful ruins of Messina but I don’t be finding Letterio, nor alive nor dead, nor his wife, and I am unhappy; also Brancaccia is unhappy.  This is why she was now going away with Ricuzzu.”

“Oh! I thought probably the baby had—”

“Yes, many times that is the explication, but this time it is other; it is that she don’t like to be hearing the story of Letterio.  I shall tell you that Brancaccia is a gentle person, very tender in the heart.”

“Yes,” I agreed, “of course she is.  But are not you both making too much of this?  You could not have known there would be an earthquake in Messina.  If there was to

be one it might have been in some other city, and they would not have been destroyed.”

“Look here; perhaps she was not a so bad woman; perhaps some day she would be making a little Ricuzzu and would be learning to be a good woman.”

“She might learn very slowly or not at all; and think of her poor husband all the time!”

“Let us talk of something other.  Do you remember Alfio Mascalucía?”

“Perhaps; what did he do?”

“You were always calling him Bellini.”

“In the barber’s shop opposite?  Of course, I remember him, but I had no idea he had such a magnificent name or I never should have dared to take liberties with it.”

I remembered him very well.  I remembered going into the shop one day and he was alone, busy writing at a table in the corner.  He said he was composing a polka.  He had