"There you are--come home!" she mumbled, staggered by the unexpectedness
of the event. She sat down.
He bent down to her with a pale face, little tears glistened
brightly in the corners of his eyes, and his lips trembled. For a
moment he was silent. The mother looked at him, and was silent also.
The Little Russian, whistling softly, passed by them with bent head
and walked out into the yard.
"Thank you, mother," said Pavel in a deep, low voice, pressing her
hand with his trembling fingers. "Thank you, my dear, my own
mother!"
Rejoiced at the agitated expression of her son's face and the
touching sound of his voice, she stroked his hair and tried to
restrain the palpitation of her heart. She murmured softly:
"Christ be with you! What have I done for you? It isn't I who
have made you what you are. It's you yourself----"
"Thank you for helping our great cause!" he said. "When a man can
call his mother his own in spirit also--that's rare fortune!"
She said nothing, and greedily swallowed his words. She admired
her son as he stood before her so radiant and so near.
"I was silent, mother dear. I saw that many things in my life hurt
you.
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