Graziano looked at the polished copper that shone on the smoky wall; the spotless floor, recently washed; the swept hearth; and on the dresser, the gold-rimmed cups turned upside down, four oranges, and the pictures of the saints. The old man also opened the chest to show him a bolt of bleached cloth. He had barely lifted the lid when he suddenly let it fall, saying:

“Women’s business, these things. She was sixteen when she got sick. Do you remember? And sixteen and a half when her mother died, the sainted woman. Since then, alone and so young, she’s kept the house going like clockwork. Right now she’s spinning wool, and after that she’ll set up the loom. She even sews the scappulari by herself. Around the house, she’s a bee. And the way she used to sing before! Do you remember? Just like a little tinkling bell, a real ciancianedda. The nickname stuck…. She still smiles all the time, even when she shouldn’t…. Go on now. She’s out with comare Orsolina at benediction. You can set foot in here again on the day of the engagement.”

And massaro Peppe went back outside to finish his flute and stayed there until Ciancianedda got home. He followed her in right away, frowning, and sat down on the bench.

Then Michele, his son who was so big that he had to bend over to pass through the doorway, came in, too.

And while Ciancianedda was down on her knees, blowing under the hanging pot that swayed back and forth, father called son and announced without looking at him: “Today he told me what he needed to tell me. It’s useless for you to talk to him…. He really wants her,” he added, pointing to the girl whose hair appeared to be made of copper in the flame’s bright reflection.

“And you, sir?”

“They love each other,” said the old man, sighing. “Your sister is sewing her corredo, and I believe in her heart she thinks about getting married. One of these days she could do something foolish without realizing it.”

“He’d better forget it, that bum!”

“They love each other, Michele. They understand each other the same as if they could talk to one another. You can’t put love out like you do a fire.”

After the engagement, massaro Peppe allowed the couple to see one another every evening when Graziano returned from San Martino. Ciancianedda was always there on the doorstep spinning furiously, thick and thin, lowering her timid and laughing eyes each time Graziano bent over her, his face lit up by pleasure and desire. They spent hours that way until the moon came out.

The neighbor women exchanged furtive glances, remarking with disappointment,

“What a pity. He’s gorgeous as Saint George…. As if he didn’t have other girls!”