CHAPTER
VII
Up the long smooth road that lay by the walls of the villa came toiling a team of huge grayish oxen, with monstrous spreading horns tied with blue ribbons. The cart that they drew was filled with baskets loaded with grapes, and a whiff of their fragrance smote Daphne's nostrils as she walked on the balcony in the morning air.
"Assunta, Assunta!" she cried, leaning over the gray, moss-coated railing, "what is it?"
Assunta was squatting on the ground in the garden below, digging with a blunt knife at the roots of a garden fern. There was a gray red cotton shawl over her head, and a lilac apron upon her knees.
"It's the vintage, Signorina," she answered, "the wine makes itself."
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