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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.


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