“It was her cousin,” said Tant’ Sannie, now fairly on the flow, “who had the cancer cut out of her breast by the other doctor, who was not the right doctor they sent for, but who did it quite as well.”

“Yes, aunt,” said the young man.

“I’ve heard about it often,” said Tant’ Sannie. “And he was the son of the old doctor that they say died on Christmas Day; but I don’t know if that’s true. People do tell such awful lies. Why should he die on Christmas Day more than any other day?”

“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.