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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.
"Zalia could come with me," said Barbara. "And leave the house alone? And who's to go to the priest to-morrow? And to the carpenter? And my harvest, my harvest! Yes, yes, Warten, do you get into the goat-house and help me a bit to-morrow. I shall sleep: why not?" "Alla , come, Fietje; mother's going home." A corruption of the French allez! They went; and Zalia came a bit of the way with them.
"He'll soon begin to must," said Barbara. "The weather's warm." "He's very bent: how'll they get him into the coffin?" "Crack his back." Treze looked round for a prayer-book to lay under Zeen's chin and a crucifix and rosary for his hands. Mite took a red handkerchief and bound it round his head to keep his mouth closed. Fietje was still kneeling and saying Our Fathers.
"It'll be to-night," said Treze. "Where can Virginie be? She'll come too late." "Virginie is better than three doctors or a priest either," thought Mite. "Zalia, I think I'd get out the candle." Zalia went to the chest and got out the candle. "Mother, I'm frightened," whined Fietje. "You mustn't be frightened of dead people, child; you must get used to it." "Have you any holy water, Zalia?"