CLEMENTINE. [Bursting out.] God! If any ships should go down tonight.
KNEIRTJE. We are all in God's hands, and God is great and good.
JO. [Springing up wildly.] Ships go down! Ships go down! The one howls. The other cries. I wish I'd sat alone tonight. [Beating her head with her fists.] You're all driving me mad, mad, mad!
JO. [Passionately.] Her husband and her little brother--and my poor uncle--those horrible stories--instead of cheering us up! Ask me now for my story! [Shrieking.] My father was drowned, drowned, drowned, drowned! There are others--all--drowned, drowned!--and--you are all miserable wretches--you are! [Violently bangs the door shut as she runs out.]
TRUUS. [Anxiously.] I believe she's afraid.
KNEIRTJE. No, child, she will quiet down by herself. Nervous strain of the last two days. Are you going now, Miss?
CLEMENTINE. It has grown late, Kneir, and your niece--your niece was a little unmannerly. No, I'm not offended. Who is going to take me home?
SAART. If one goes, we all go. Together we won't blow away. Good night, Kneir.
MARIETJE. [Depressed.] Good night, Aunt Kneir.
KNEIRTJE. Thank you again, Miss, for the soup and eggs.
TRUUS. Are you coming to drink a bowl with me tomorrow night? Please say yes.
KNEIRTJE. Well, perhaps. Good night, Miss. Good night, Marietje. Good night, Saart. If you see Jo send her in at once. [All go out except Kneirtje. She clears away the cups. A fierce wind howls, shrieking about the house. She listens anxiously at the window, shoves her chair close to the chimney, stares into the fire. Her lips move in a muttered prayer while she fingers a rosary. Jo enters, drops into a chair by the window and nervously unpins her shawl.]
KNEIRTJE. You'd better go to bed. You are all unstrung. What an outburst! And that dear child that came out in the storm to bring me soup and eggs.
JO. [Roughly.] Your sons are out in the storm for her and her father.
JO. And for us. [A silence.] The sea is so wild.
JO. [Anxiously.] I couldn't stand against the wind. Half the guard rail is washed away, the pier is under water. [A silence. Kneirtje prays.] Oh! Oh! I'm dead from those miserable stories!
KNEIRTJE. You're not yourself tonight. You never went on like this when Geert sailed with the Navy. Go to bed and pray. Prayer is the only consolation. A sailor's wife must not be weak. In a month or two it will storm again; each time again. And there are many fishermen on the sea besides our boys. [Her speech sinks into a soft murmur. Her old fingers handle the rosary.]