But when she saw Umbertina again, Anna Giordani acted annoyed and short-tempered. “Look here, don’t keep bothering me about that spread. The woman says you’re not to be an Indian giver.”

“What have I to do with Indians?” Umbertina asked in disgust.

“She says no,” Anna said irritably. “She bought it fairly and she paid a lot besides to have it thoroughly cleaned. She wants to keep it. She won’t give it up, and I can tell you she was very upset at the suggestion. She said a bargain is a bargain in this country and she paid enough for it so that you can buy another much more practical spread.” The gaunt woman, so much taller and thinner than Umbertina, tried to speak dispassionately, but Umbertina sensed the struggle in her, sensed that Anna Giordani, too, felt the Quaker lady was not right.

“I can pay for the cleaning,” Umbertina protested, “and whatever else she wants extra. The spread is something of my life and nothing to her.”

Anna Giordani looked at the stubborn and tenacious Umbertina. She had spent years among the Italian immigrants and she had learned their differences: The Sicilians were ornately, elaborately civil, but hotheaded; the Neapolitans vain and sly; the Romans overbearing; and those of the North, her own kind, stolid and dull. But of them all, the Calabrians were the most given to nursing long grudges against wrongs. It was Umbertina’s nature to hold tight to her resentments.

“Really, signora, why carry on so about a spread! The woman said you people shouldn’t be so attached to showy things but should work to get ahead and then buy things that are more practical. You should be glad to be rid of something that is so expensive to clean.” Anna lowered her eyes before Umbertina’s direct stare. “In any case, she wants it and has no intention of giving it up.”

“This is a country without heart,” Umbertina spit out. “Only buying and selling is understood here.” Anna Giordani silently agreed.

When Umbertina packed for the train trip to Cato, she had only a few sheets of rough and coarse hand-woven cotton left of her dote; those and the tin heart alone had survived the ocean voyage and the years in New York. It was enough, she thought; we still have our health.

On the train her heart slowly began to lift as they left the city behind and her eyes rested on the waters of the Hudson, which she had not seen since their arrival. Her eyes were fixed to the window, gazing at the wooded banks on the opposite shore. It was early September and there were patches of tall purple, white, and yellow wild-flowers along the tracks. The train passed through one little town after another where wharfs projected out into the river, clustered about with barges loading or discharging cargo. Boats sailed upon the river. On the land beyond the tracks she caught glimpses of great homes, and there were some large factories along the riverbanks. This is beautiful country, she thought, not dry and burnt-out like Calabria. Abundance was everywhere—the piles of stones, lumber, and bricks in the yards alongside stations showed that growth was in the air. She saw men fishing along the banks; she saw the walls and towers of the fortresslike building that was Sing Sing prison. She saw trees and flowering weeds and the tangle of vines and bushes.