"Don't pull my hand," said the Little Russian gruffly. "You'll let
go and I'll fall. Go away!"
"Why are you so shy?" the mother said pensively. "You'd better
embrace and kiss. Press hard, hard!"
"Do you want to?" asked Pavel softly.
"We--ell, why not?" answered the Little Russian, rising.
Pavel dropped on his knees, and grasping each other firmly, they
sank for a moment into each other's embrace--two bodies and one soul
passionately and evenly burning with a profound feeling of friendship.
Tears ran down the mother's face, but this time they were easy tears.
Drying them she said in embarrassment:
"A woman likes to cry. She cries when she is in sorrow,; she cries
when she is in joy!"
The Little Russian pushed Pavel away, and with a light movement,
also wiping his eyes with his fingers, he said:
"Enough! When the calves have had their frolic, they must go to
the shambles. What beastly coal this is! I blew and blew on it,
and got some of the dust in my eyes."
Pavel sat at the window with bent head, and said mildly:
"You needn't be ashamed of such tears."
The mother walked up to him, and sat down beside him. Her heart
was wrapped in a soft, warm, daring feeling.
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