“Yes, aunt, why?” said the young man meekly.

“Did you ever have the toothache?” asked Tant’ Sannie.

“No, aunt.”

“Well, they say that doctor, — not the son of the old doctor that died on Christmas Day, the other that didn’t come when he was sent for — he gave such good stuff for the toothache that if you opened the bottle in the room where any one was bad they got better directly. You could see it was good stuff,” said Tant’ Sannie: “it tasted horrid. That was a real doctor! He used to give a bottle so high,” said the Boer-woman, raising her hand a foot from the table, “you could drink at it for a month and it wouldn’t get done, and the same medicine was good for all sorts of sicknesses — croup, measles, jaundice, dropsy. Now you have to buy a new kind for each sickness. The doctors aren’t so good as they used to be.”

“No, aunt,” said the young man, who was trying to gain courage to stick out his legs and clink his spurs together. He did so at last.

Tant’ Sannie had noticed the spurs before; but she thought it showed a nice manly spirit, and her heart warmed yet more to the youth.

“Did you ever have convulsions when you were a baby?” asked Tant’ Sannie.

“Yes,” said the young man.

“Strange!” said Tant’ Sannie; “I had convulsions too. Wonderful that we should be so much alike!”

“Aunt,” said the young man, explosively, “can we sit up to-night?”

Tant’ Sannie hung her head and half closed her eyes: but finding that her little wiles were thrown away, the young man staring fixedly at his hat, she simpered “Yes,” and went away to fetch candles.

In the dining-room Em worked at her machine, and Gregory sat close beside her, his great blue eyes turned to the window where Lyndall leaned out talking to Waldo.

Tant’ Sannie took two candles out of the cupboard and held them up triumphantly, winking all round the room.

“He’s asked for them,” she said.

“Does he want them for his horse’s rubbed back?” asked Gregory, new to up-country life.

“No,” said Tant’ Sannie, indignantly: “we’re going to sit up!” and she walked off in triumph with the candles.

Nevertheless, when all the rest of the house had retired, when the long candle was lighted, when the coffee-kettle was filled, when she sat in the elbow-chair, with her lover on a chair close beside her, and when the vigil of the night was fairly begun, she began to find it wearisome. The young man looked chilly, and said nothing.

“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?”