"Depend upon it you'll get the itch, or some other disease; the blessing of
the Lord'll never rest upon it," said the Boer-woman. Then suddenly she
broke forth. "And she eighty-two, and goats, and rams, and eight thousand
morgen, and the rams real angora, and two thousand sheep, and a short-horn
bull," said Tant Sannie, standing upright and planting a hand on each hip.
Em looked at her in silent wonder. Had connubial bliss and the joys of
motherhood really turned the old Boer-woman's head?
"Yes," said Tant Sannie; "I had almost forgotten to tell you. By the Lord
if I had him here! We were walking to church last Sacrament Sunday, Piet
and I. Close in front of us with old Tant Trana, with dropsy and cancer,
and can't live eight months. Walking by her was something with its hands
under its coat-tails, flap, flap, flap; and its chin in the air, and a
stick-up collar, and the black hat on the very back of the head. I knew
him! 'Who's that?' I asked. 'The rich Englishman that Tant Trana married
last week.' 'Rich Englishman! I'll rich Englishman him,' I said; 'I'll
tell Tant Trana a thing or two. My fingers were just in his little white
curls. If it hadn't been the blessed Sacrament, he wouldn't have walked so
sourka, sourka, sourka, any more. But I thought. Wait till I've had it,
and then--.
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