“They’ll know it in good time,” said Warten.
“And where are they living now?” asked Mite.
“In France, the two oldest ... and there’s Miel, the soldier ... it’s in their letters, behind the glass.”
“Give ‘em to me,” said Treze. “I’ll make my boy write to-morrow, before he goes to school.”
They were going off.
“And I, who, with this all, don’t know where I’m to sleep,” said Warten. “My old roost, over the goat-house: you’ll be wanting that to-night, Zalia?”
Zalia wavered.
“Zalia could come with me,” said Barbara.
“And leave the house alone? And who’s to go to the priest to-morrow? And to the carpenter? And my harvest, my harvest! Yes, yes, Warten, do you get into the goat-house and help me a bit to-morrow. I shall sleep: why not?”
“Alla[12], come, Fietje; mother’s going home.”