"Thanks; the same to you."

And she continued picking apples.

When she went back to the house, she went over to look at her father,
expecting to find him dead. But as soon as she reached the door she heard
his monotonous, noisy rattle, and, thinking it a waste of time to go over
to him, she began to prepare her dumplings. She wrapped up the fruit, one
by one, in a thin layer of paste, then she lined them up on the edge of
the table. When she had made forty-eight dumplings, arranged in dozens,
one in front of the other, she began to think of preparing supper, and
she hung her kettle over the fire to cook potatoes, for she judged it
useless to heat the oven that day, as she had all the next day in which
to finish the preparations.

Her husband returned at about five. As soon as he had crossed the
threshold he asked:

"Is it over?"

She answered:

"Not yet; he's still gurglin'."

They went to look at him. The old man was in exactly the same condition.
His hoarse rattle, as regular as the ticking of a clock, was neither
quicker nor slower. It returned every second, the tone varying a little,
according as the air entered or left his chest.

His son-in-law looked at him and then said: