axiom,
not more trite than true, that human enjoyment and luxury are all
comparative.

Well! the wet afternoon was wearing on, beguiled by the young girls as
best it might be, with the spindle and distaff, and incessant chatter
and laugh, save when they joined their voices in some popular
chant. Signora Martina was delivering fresh flax to the spinners;
Marietta, the maid, was busy about the fire, in provident forethought
for supper; and Beppo, a barefooted, weather-beaten individual, was
bringing in the wood he had been sawing this rainy day, which
interfered with his more usual business at that season. For Beppo was
one of the men whose task it was to climb the olive-trees and shake
down the olives for the women gathering below. He was distinguished
among many as a skilful and valiant climber; nor had his laurels been
earned without perils and wounds. Occasionally he fell, and
occasionally broke a bone or two,--episodes that had their
compensation. Beppo, then, on this particular rainy afternoon, came
in with a flat basket full of newly cut wood on his head, respectfully
saluted the _Padrona_, and, after throwing down his load in a
corner of the kitchen, leisurely turned his basket topsy-turvy, seated
himself upon it, and prepared to take his part in the general
conversation.

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. "Oil selling for nothing, and the tree, the best of
trees, to be blown down!"

"Take care," said the Doctor, "take care