back towards the door, Don Gaetano was on his knees before the stove
busy heating a saucepan over the fire; beside him on the floor lay an
old mattress with the well-known Abruzzi cloak thrown over it, and close
by, spread out on a newspaper, were various delicacies--an orange,
walnuts, and raisins, and there also was the red paper bag. Don Gaetano
dropped a lump of sugar into the saucepan, stirred it with a stick, and
in a persuasive voice I heard him say, "Che bella roba, che bella roba,
quanto e buono questa latte con lo zucchero! Non piange anima mia,
adesso siamo pronti!" [Footnote: "What nice things, what nice things,
how good this milk with sugar is! Don't cry, my darling, it is ready
now!"]

A slight rustling was heard beneath the Abruzzi cloak and a black little
hand was stretched out toward the red paper bag.

"Primo il latte, primo il latte" admonished the old man. "Non importa,
piglio tu una," [Footnote: "The milk first, the milk first--never mind,
take one."] he repeated, and took a big burnt almond out of the paper
bag; the little hand disappeared, and a crunching was heard under the
cloak. Don Gaetano poured the warm milk in a saucer, and then he
carefully lifted up a corner of the cloak. There lay the poor little
monkey with heaving breast and eyes glowing with fever. Her face had
become so small and her complexion was ashy gray. The old man took her
on his knees, and tenderly as a mother he poured some spoonfuls of the
warm milk into her mouth. She looked with indifferent eyes towards the
delicacies on the table, and absently she let her fingers pass through
her master's beard. She was so tired that she could hardly hold her head
up, and now and then she coughed so that her thin little body trembled,
and she pressed both her hands to her temples. Don Gaetano shook his
head sadly, and carefully laid the little invalid back under the cloak.