The young man's heart beat high with triumph and happiness, as he returned to his rooms. He felt that at last he had begun to live; hitherto he had only vegetated, but now he was entering on the full life of a man. Yet there was some alloy in his happiness even then. The thought of his mother, and of her disapproval of his course, refused to be banished from his mind; and though he pretended to rejoice that she had escaped from the city, and had been spared the pain of a meeting and a useless conflict with him, yet his conscience would not be deceived. Too well he knew that he was afraid to meet his mother, and was more relieved at being freed from that necessity than rejoiced at her safe escape. With the approach of evening poor Jenő's thoughts became such a torment to him that he prepared to go out in quest of distraction. But on stepping before his mirror to adjust his cravat, a sight met his eyes that made him start back in sudden fear. Reflected in the glass he saw his mother enter the room. "Mother!" he cried, turning toward her. The woman before him was not the proud, commanding form that he knew so well. It was one of those sorrowing figures which we see painted at the foot of the cross, bowed with grief and spent with watching and weeping,--the very incarnation of bitter anguish. In such guise did the Baroness Baradlay present herself to her youngest son Jenő, and at sight of her, the young man's first thought was one that gave him no cause to blush afterward. Forgetting his dread of meeting her, he thought only of the danger to which she was exposing herself in coming to him, and he put his arms around her, as if to shield her from harm. On his cheek he felt the warm kisses,--so different from those of that other mother! "How did you manage to come to me, dear mother?" he asked. "I came by a long way." "They told me you had left the city, and were in Pressburg." "So I was. For three days I sought you in vain; then I gave up the hope of finding you, and left the city. But in Pressburg I heard something that made me turn back and seek you once more." "Oh, why did you do it?" exclaimed the son. "You had but to send for me, and I would have hastened to you. Why did you not command me?" "Ah, my son, I have forgotten how to command. I have come not to command, but to implore. Do not be afraid of me; do not look at me as if I were a spectre risen between you and your heart's desire. Not thus do I come to you, but only as a suppliant, with one last petition." "Mother," cried Jenő, much moved, "do not speak to me like that, I beg of you."