The principal tried to lead her out, but she resisted, still continuing to pray and to weep.
“Oh, if you only knew the trouble that this boy has caused me, you would have pity! Do me this favor! I hope that he will reform. I shall not live long, Signor Director; I bear death within me; but I should like to see him reformed before my death, because”—and she broke into a passion of weeping—“he is my son—I love him—I shall die in despair! Take him back once more, Signor Director, that a misfortune may not happen in the family! Do it out of pity for a poor woman!” And she covered her face with her hands and sobbed.
Franti stood impassive, and hung his head. The head-master looked at him, reflected a little, then said, “Franti, go to your place.”
Then the woman removed her hands from her face, quite comforted, and began to express thanks upon thanks, without giving the director a chance to speak, and made her way towards the door, wiping her eyes, and saying hastily: “I beg of you, my son.—May all have patience.—Thanks, Signor Director; you have performed a deed of mercy.—Be a good boy.—Good day, boys.—Thanks, Signor Teacher; good-bye, and forgive a poor mother.” And after bestowing another supplicating glance at her son from the door, she went away, pulling up the shawl which was trailing after her, pale, bent, with a head which still shook, and we heard her coughing all the way down the stairs. The principal gazed intently at Franti, amid the silence of the class, and said to him in stern accents:—
“Franti, you are killing your mother!”
