The Vrouw Grobelaar wobbled where she sat with stupefaction.
"Yes," continued Katje, musingly casting her eyes to the rafters, "I wish a man would just take me by the hand—so— and not listen to anything I said, nor let me go however I should struggle, and carry me off on the peak of his saddle and marry me. I think I would be willing to die for a man who could do that."
The Vrouw Grobelaar found her voice at last. "Katje," she said with deep-toned emphasis, "you are talking wickedness, just wickedness. Do you think I would let a man—any man, or perhaps an Englishman—carry you off like a strayed ewe?"
"The sort of man I'm thinking of," replied the maiden, "wouldn't ask you for permission. He'd simply pick me up, and away he'd go."
At times, and in certain matters, Vrouw Grobelaar would display a ready acumen.
"Tell me, Katje," she said now, "who is this man?"
Then Katje dropped her book and, sitting upright with an unimpeachable surprise, stared at the old lady.
"I'm not thinking of any man," she remarked calmly. "I was just wishing there was a man who would have the pluck to do it."
The Vrouw Grobelaar shook her head. "Good Burghers don't carry girls away," she said. "They come and drink coffee, and sit with them, and talk about the sheep."
"And behave as if they had never worn boots before, and didn't know what to do with their hands," added the maiden. "Aunt, am I a girl to marry a man who upsets three cups of coffee in half an hour and borrows a handkerchief to wipe his knees?"