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"I'll tell you what: Fietje shall run home and fetch something, won't you, Fietje? And say that mother is going to stay here because Zeen is dying." Fietje went off. The coffee was ready and when they had gulped down their first bowl, they went to have another look in the room where the sick man lay. Zeen was worse. "We must sit up with him," said Stanse. "For sure," said Treze.
She felt ashamed when she came down again and glanced askance at Doorke, who would think her so plain in her week-day clothes. The boy looked at her and said nothing; then he jumped into the cart and drove off slowly. Mother with Stanse and father with uncle came walking behind. It was still light; the evening was falling slowly, slowly, as though the daylight would never end.
"We haven't any mustard and it's far to the village." "Then he must have a bran bath, Zalia. Stanse, put on the kettle." "Have you any bran, Zalia?" "No, not ready; but there's maize." "And a sieve?" "Yes, there's a sieve." "Hi, Warten, come and sift!" Warten came in: "Zeen, how are you, my boy? Oh, how thin he is! And his breath ... it's spluttering, that's bad.
Uncle and aunt were extremely pleased with their visit; uncle looked contentedly into the distance and boasted that he had never seen such an evening nor such fine weather so early in the year, while Frazie at each step flung her arms into the air and stopped to say things to Stanse, whose good-natured laugh rang out over the plain and along the road.
Stanse mashed the potatoes; Zalia poured a drain of milk over them and hung them over the fire again. "Have you all had your suppers?" she asked. "Yes," said Treze and Barbara and Mite. "I haven't," said Stanse. Zalia turned the steaming potato-mash into an earthen porringer and she and Stanse sat down to it. The others drank a fresh bowl of coffee. They were silent.
Zeen!" cried Mite and she pushed him back by his forehead to make him look up. "Zeen! Zeen! It's I: don't you know Mite?" "Oof!" sighed Zeen; and his head dropped down again without his eyes opening. "He's got the fever," said Barbara. "Just feel how his forehead's burning and he's as hot as fire." "Haven't you poulticed him?" asked Stanse. "He wants poultices on his feet: mustard."
Mite knew of other remedies, Stanse knew of some too and Treze of many more: they asked Zeen questions and babbled to him, made him put out his tongue and felt his pulse, cried out at his gasping for breath and his pale colour and his dilated pupils and his burning fever. Zeen did not stir and lay looking at the ceiling. When he was tired of the noise, he said: "Leave me alone."
"I'll go and tell my man: I'll be back at once." "Tell Free as you're passing that I'm staying here too," said Stanse. "We must eat, for all that," said Zalia; and she hung the potatoes over the fire. Then she went to milk the goat and take it its food. It was bright as day outside and quiet, so very quiet, with still some of the heat of the sun lingering in the air, which weighed sultrily.
Where's Horieneke?" asked Stanse, suddenly. From the little green arbour, in between the trees, a golden curly-head came peeping, followed by a little white body and little Trientje too, holding a great bunch of yellow daffodils in her hand. Stanse stuck out her arms in the air: "Oh, you little butterfly! Come along here, you're as lovely as an angel!"
"Well, perhaps I've come at the right time, if that's so." "You can help sit up." "Have you had your supper, Warten?" "Yes, Zalia, at the farm." "And how's trade?" asked Stanse. "Quietly, old girl." They heard a moaning in the other room. Barbara lit the lantern and all went to look. Warten stayed behind, smoking.
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