The sight of the poor soul stranded among the relics of the past cut to his heart, and he was filled with pity. But he spoke with a bitter asperity and seemed to scold, to drag her from her apathy: "Come, come, mother; you must not stay there, in the middle of all that dust, with the room all shut up! It is not good for you. You must pull yourself together, and have done with all this." "Yes," said she meekly. She tried to get up to put the things back in the drawer. But she sat down again at once and listlessly let them fall from her hands. "Oh! I can't ... I can't," she moaned. "I shall never finish!" He was frightened. He leaned over her. He caressed her forehead with his hands. "Come, mother, what is it?" he said. "Shall I help you? Are you ill?" She did not answer. She gave a sort of stifled sob. He took her hands, and knelt down by her side, the better to see her in the dusky room. "Mother!" he said anxiously. Louisa laid her head on his shoulder and burst into tears. "My boy, my boy," she cried, holding close to him. "My boy!... You will not leave me? Promise me that you will not leave me?" His heart was torn with pity. "No, mother, no. I will not leave you. What made you think of such a thing?" "I am so unhappy! They have all left me, all...." She pointed to the things all about her, and he did not know whether she was speaking of them or of her sons and the dead. "You will stay with me? You will not leave me?... What should I do, if you went too?" "I will not go, I tell you; we will stay together. Don't cry. I promise." She went on weeping. She could not stop herself. He dried her eyes with his handkerchief. "What is it, mother dear? Are you in pain?" "I don't know; I don't know what it is." She tried to calm herself and to smile. "I do try to be sensible. I do. But just nothing at all makes me cry.... You see, I'm doing it again.... Forgive me. I am so stupid. I am old. I have no strength left. I have no taste for anything any more. I am no good for anything. I wish I were buried with all the rest...." He held her to him, close, like a child. "Don't worry, mother; be calm; don't think about it...." Gradually she grew quiet. "It is foolish. I am ashamed.... But what is it? What is it?" She who had always worked so hard could not understand why her strength had suddenly snapped, and she was humiliated to the very depths of her being. He pretended not to see it. "A little weariness, mother," he said, trying to speak carelessly. "It is nothing; you will see; it is nothing." But he too was anxious. From his childhood he had been accustomed to see her brave, resigned, in silence withstanding every test. And he was astonished to see her suddenly broken: he was afraid. He helped her to sort the things scattered on the floor. Every now and then she would linger over something, but he would gently take it from her hands, and she suffered him.