A week before the wedding, the bride's sister awoke to find the bride blue in the face beside her in bed. From that moment, the wailing didn't cease. The two old ladies, Zia Lucia and Zia Rita, saw to that, and the godparents were sent for to add to the clamor. But Filomena, the seamstress the family had brought in to sew the trousseau (their own fingers were too fine for the task), didn't see what Donna Maruzza was grieving about. She had had only the two daughters left to marry, and now that the older was dead, of course the younger would have the other's intended, and Donna Maruzza could sleep all day if she wanted. Was that why she mourned? Did she wish she had the luck of Filomena, who could rejoice in six daughters still unmarried, with no money, no prospects, and no brother to defend them?

But the family didn't bother to explain themselves to Filomena. By the time they remembered she was there, the table was already piled high with food the visitors had brought—more food than Filomena's daughters would see in a month, though they could make it disappear in an hour, since being single didn't lessen their appetites. Donna Maruzza's son came out to Filomena, who was by then at her regular place, at her machine outside the front door. The house was on the piazza, and from her bench Filomena could see the people walk by as she worked. Nino looked more solemn than usual, and he usually looked as if his sister had just died. All the same, he had not lost the expression all young men wore when addressing Filomena, an expression that said, "Pardon my formality, but enjoy it, too; for you'll never know me at closer range."

"Here's your pay," said Nino, holding out his hand. Filomena counted the coins with her eyes.