"Won't you put your feet on my stove?" said Tant Sannie.
"No thank you, aunt," said the young man, and both lapsed into silence.
At last Tant Sannie, afraid of going to sleep, tapped a strong cup of
coffee for herself and handed another to her lover. This visibly revived
both.
"How long were you married, cousin?"
"Ten months, aunt."
"How old was your baby?"
"Three days when it died."
"It's very hard when we must give our husbands and wives to the Lord," said
Tant Sannie.
"Very," said the young man; "but it's the Lord's will."
"Yes," said Tant Sannie, and sighed.
"She was such a good wife, aunt: I've known her break a churn-stick over a
maid's head for only letting dust come on a milk cloth."
Tant Sannie felt a twinge of jealousy. She had never broken a churn-stick
on a maid's head.
"I hope your wife made a good end," she said.
"Oh, beautiful, aunt: she said up a psalm and two hymns and a half before
she died."
"Did she leave any messages?" asked Tant Sannie.
"No," said the young man; "but the night before she died I was lying at the
foot of her bed; I felt her foot kick me.
"'Piet,' she said.
"'Annie, my heart,' said I.
"'My little baby that died yesterday has been here, and it stood over the
wagon-box,' she said.
"'What did it say?' I asked.
"'It said that if I died you must marry a fat woman.
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