true, there are long strips of window and slots of space, so that the
front is striped, and an occasional beam of light fingers the leaves of
an enclosed tree and the sickly round lemons. But it is nevertheless
very gloomy.

'But it is much colder in here than outside,' I said.

'Yes,' replied the Signore, 'now. But at night--I _think_--'

I almost wished it were night to try. I wanted to imagine the trees
cosy. They seemed now in the underworld. Between the lemon trees, beside
the path, were little orange trees, and dozens of oranges hanging like
hot coals in the twilight. When I warm my hands at them the Signore
breaks me off one twig after another, till I have a bunch of burning
oranges among dark leaves, a heavy bouquet. Looking down the Hades of
the lemon-house, the many ruddy-clustered oranges beside the path remind
me of the lights of a village along the lake at night, while the pale
lemons above are the stars. There is a subtle, exquisite scent of lemon
flowers. Then I notice a citron. He hangs heavy and bloated upon so
small a tree, that he seems a dark green enormity. There is a great host
of lemons overhead, half-visible, a swarm of ruddy oranges by the paths,
and here and there a fat citron. It is almost like being under the sea.

At the corners of the path were round little patches of ash and stumps
of charred wood, where fires had been kindled inside the house on cold
nights. For during the second and third weeks in January the snow came
down so low on the mountains that, after climbing for an hour, I found
myself in a snow lane, and saw olive orchards on lawns of snow.

The padrone says that all lemons and sweet oranges are grafted on a