CHAPTER LXXVII

Not long after this, as the little family at Tergou sat at dinner,
Luke
Peterson burst in on them, covered with dust. “Good people,
Mistress
Catherine is wanted instantly at Rotterdam.”

“My name is Catherine, young man. Kate, it will be Margaret.”

“Ay, dame, she said to me, ‘Good Luke, hie thee to Tergou, and ask
for
Eli the hosier, and pray his wife Catherine to come to me, for God
His
love.’ I didn’t wait for daylight.”

“Holy saints! He has come home, Kate. Nay, she would sure have said
so.
What on earth can it be?” And she heaped conjecture on conjecture.

“Mayhap the young man can tell us,” hazarded Kate timidly.

“That I can,” said Luke, “Why, her babe is a-dying, And she was so
wrapped up in it!”

Catherine started up: “What is his trouble?”

“Nay, I know not. But it has been peaking and pining worse and
worse
this while.”

A furtive glance of satisfaction passed between Cornelis and

Sybrandt.
Luckily for them Catherine did not see it. Her face was turned
towards
her husband. “Now, Eli,” cried she furiously, “if you say a word
against
it, you and I shall quarrel, after all these years.’

“Who gainsays thee, foolish woman? Quarrel with your own shadow,
while I
go borrow Peter’s mule for ye.”

“Bless thee, my good man! Bless thee! Didst never yet fail me at a
pinch, Now eat your dinners who can, while I go and make ready.”

She took Luke back with her in the cart, and on the way questioned
and
cross-questioned him severely and seductively by turns, till she
had
turned his mind inside out, what there was of it.

Margaret met her at the door, pale and agitated, and threw her arms
round her neck, and looked imploringly in her face.

“Come, he is alive, thank God,” said Catherine, after scanning her

eagerly.
She looked at the failing child, and then at the poor hollow-eyed
mother, alternately, “Lucky you sent for me,” said she, “The child
is
poisoned.”

“Poisoned! by whom?”

“By you. You have been fretting.”

“Nay, indeed, mother. How can I help fretting?”

“Don’t tell me, Margaret. A nursing mother has no business to fret.

She
must turn her mind away from her grief to the comfort that lies in
her
lap. Know you not that the child pines if the mother vexes herself?
This
comes of your reading and writing. Those idle crafts befit a man;
but they keep all useful knowledge out of a woman. The child must
be
weaned.”