At this moment the Doctor himself entered, his cloak and hat dripping.

“Heugh! heugh!” he exclaimed, in a voice of disgust, as his wife helped him out of his covering; “what weather!” He went towards the fire, and spread out his hands to catch the heat of the glowing embers, on which sat a saucepan.  “Horrid weather!  The wind played the very mischief with us last night!”

“Many branches broken, Padrone?” asked Beppo, eagerly.

“Branches, eh?  Aye, aye; saw away; burn away; don’t be afraid of a supply failing,” said the Doctor, dryly.

“Oh, Santa Maria!” sighed Signora Martina, in sad presentiment.

“Plenty of firewood, my dear soul, for two years,” went on the Doctor.  “The big tree near the pigeon-house is head down, root up, torn, smashed, prostrate, while good-for-nothing saplings are standing.”

“Oh Lord! such a tree! that never failed, bad year or good year, to give us a sack of olives, and often more!” cried Signora Martina, piteously.  “More than three generations old it was!” And she began actually to weep.  “Oil selling for nothing, and the tree, the best of trees, to be blown down!”

“Take care,” said the Doctor, “take care of repining!  Little misfortunes are like a rash, which carries off bad humors from a too robust body.  Suppose the storm had laid my head low, and turned up my toes; what then, eh, little girls?” turning to the group of young creatures standing with their eyes very wide open at the recital of the misdeeds of the turbulent wind, and now as suddenly off into a laugh at the image of the Doctor’s decease so represented.  “Ah! you giggling set!  Happy you that have no branches to be broken, and no olive-pickers to pay! Per Bacco! you are well off, if you only knew it!”

He walked over to where his weeping wife sat, laid his hand on her head, and stooping, kissed her brow.  The girls laughed again.

“Be quiet, all of you!  Do you think that only smooth brows and bright cheeks ought to be kissed?  Be good loving wives, and I promise you your husbands will be blind to your wrinkles.  I could not be happy without the sight of this well-known face; it is the record of happiness for me.  I wish you all our luck, my dears!”

All simpered or laughed, and Martina’s brow smoothed.

“Now I see that I can still make you smile at misfortune,” continued the Doctor, “I will tell you something comforting.  As I came along, I met Paolo, the olive-merchant, who offered me a franc more a sack than he did to any one else, because he knows our olives are of a superior quality.”

Signora Martina smiled rather a grim smile at this compliment to her olives.

“But I told him,” went on Doctor Morani, with a certain look of pride, “that we were not going to sell; we intended to make oil for ourselves.  And so we will, Martina, with the olives that have been blown down, hoping the best for those still on the trees.  Now let us talk of something more pleasant.  Pasqualina, suppose you tell us a story; you are our best hand, I believe.”