Holy Ghost, Amen," prayed Father Van Hove. "Hail, Mary, full of
Grace." Then, as the prayer continued, the mother and children
with folded hands and bowed heads joined in the petition: "Holy
Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and in the hour of
our death, Amen." A clatter of spoons followed the grace, and
Mother Van Hove's good buttermilk pap was not long in
disappearing down their four hungry throats.

The long day in the open air had made the children so sleepy they
could scarcely keep their eyes open through the meal. "Come, my
children," said their mother briskly, as she rose from the table,
"pop into bed, both of you, as fast as you can go. You are
already half asleep! Father, you help them with their buttons,
and hear them say their prayers, while I wash up these dishes and
take care of the milk." She took a candle from the chimney-piece
as she spoke, and started down cellar with the skimmer. When she
came back into the kitchen once more, the children were safely
tucked in bed, and her husband was seated by the kitchen door
with his chair tipped back against the wall, smoking his evening
pipe. Mother Van Hove cleared the table, washed the dishes, and
brushed the crumbs from the tiled floor. Then she spread the
white sand once more under the table and in a wide border around
the edge of the room, and hung the brush outside the kitchen
door.

Father Van Hove smoked in silence as she moved about the room. At
last he said to her, "Leonie, did you hear what our neighbor Maes
said to-night as we were talking in the road?"

"No," said his wife, "I was hurrying home to get supper."