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. “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. She crept into the dark goat-house, put down the pot with the food and started milking.
“Betje, Betje, Zeen is so ill; Zeen may be dying, Betje!”
She always clacked to her goat like that. Two streams of milk came clattering in turns into the little pail.
People came: Treze and Mite’s little girl, with a lantern, and Barbara Dekkers, who had also come to have a look.