“Yes, there’s a sieve.”
“Hi, Warten, come and sift!”
Warten came in:
“Zeen, how are you, my boy? Oh, how thin he is! And his breath ... it’s spluttering, that’s bad. He’ll go off quickly, Barbara, it seems to me.”
“Not to-night,” said Treze.
“Warten, go to the loft, take the lamp and sift out a handful of maize; Zeen must have a bran bath at once.”
Warten went up the stair. After a while, they heard above their heads the regular, jogging drag of the sieve over the boarded ceiling and the fine meal-dust snowed down through the cracks, whirling round the lamp, and fell on Zeen’s bed and on the women standing round.
Zeen nodded his head. They held a bowl of milk to his mouth; two little white streaks ran down from the corners of his mouth into his shirt-collar.
The sieve went on dragging. The women looked at Zeen, then at one another and then at the lantern. In the kitchen, the kettle sang drearily....
Warten came down from the loft with half a pailful of bran. Barbara poured the steaming water on it and flung in a handful of salt.