“My boy!” she murmured. “Do you love your mother? . . .”
“Yes, Mamma.”
Her face grew calmer, but her eyes remained shut.
“My darling!” she whispered, almost inaudibly, with closed eyes. “Thank you. Thank you. But leave me to myself now. . . .”
He kissed her, with his manly tenderness, and then went out and shut the door. She opened her eyes, looked round the room. But it was as though she was ashamed before everything, before the walls of the room and the furniture around her; for she now closed her eyes again and hid her face in her hands.
And she sat like that for long, as though lost in thanksgiving for the mercy vouchsafed her by life. . . .
But, between the two of them, the boy now brightened, strong in the power of truth and certainty, even though window after window had opened before him, giving him a glimpse into the world. Between the two of them, he recovered his former self, his former voice, his childish tempers even, became once more the consolation and the aim of their two existences. She went for walks on his arm; he went bicycling with him for long distances, full of air and space. The house resounded with his young, serious, no longer treble voice. When she looked at him, however, she thought that he had grown, had become broader; that the shape of his
