I shook as with ague. When there was dry-cupping to be done, the "boy" came, not the Röfeh himself.
"Will you go and fetch the Röfeh?" asked my father.
"The idea!" exclaimed my mother. "A Kallah-Mädel!"
She went herself.
"Why have you grown so pale?" asked my father, in alarm.
"Nothing."
"It's some days now," he persisted.
"You imagine it, Tate."[15]
"Your mother says the same."
"Eh!"