“Mite!”
“What is it, Zalia?”
“Mite, Zeen is ill.”
“What, ill? All at once?”
“Yes, all of a sudden, cutting the corn in the field.”
“Is he bad?”
“I don’t know, I’ve given him some Haarlem oil, he’s been sick; he’s complaining of pains in his side and in his stomach; he’s very pale: you wouldn’t know him.”
They went indoors. Zalia took the lamp and both passed in, between the loom and the wall by Zeen’s bed.
He lay staring at the ceiling and catching his breath. Mite stood looking at him.
“You must give him some English salt,[11] Zalia.”