“He’s very bent: how’ll they get him into the coffin?”
“Crack his back.”
Treze looked round for a prayer-book to lay under Zeen’s chin and a crucifix and rosary for his hands.
Mite took a red handkerchief and bound it round his head to keep his mouth closed. Fietje was still kneeling and saying Our Fathers.
“It’s done now,” said Barbara, with a deep sigh. “We’ll have just one more glass and then go to bed.”
“Oh, dear people, stay a little longer!” whined Zalia. “Don’t leave me here alone.”
“It’s only,” said Mite, “that it’ll be light early to-morrow and we’ve had no sleep yet.”
“Come, come,” said Barbara, to comfort her, “you mustn’t take on now. Zeen has lived his span and has died happily in his bed.”
“Question is, shall we do as well?” said Mite.
“And Siska and Romenie and Kordula and the boys, who are not here! They ought to have seen their father die!... The poor children, they’ll cry so!”