This is to let him see that his mother is troubled. "Oh, don't cry! Oh,
don't be sad!" he roars, unable still to deal with his own passionate
anger, which is still dealing with him. With his kicks of rage he
suddenly mingles a dance of apprehension lest his mother should have
tears in her eyes. Even while he is still explicitly impenitent and
defiant he tries to pull her round to the light that he may see her face.
It is but a moment before the other passion of remorse comes to make
havoc of the helpless child, and the first passion of anger is quelled
outright.

Only to a trivial eye is there nothing tragic in the sight of these great
passions within the small frame, the small will, and, in a word, the
small nature. When a large and sombre fate befalls a little nature, and
the stage is too narrow for the action of a tragedy, the disproportion
has sometimes made a mute and unexpressed history of actual life or
sometimes a famous book; it is the manifest core of George Eliot's story
of _Adam Bede_, where the suffering of Hetty is, as it were, the eye of
the storm. All is expressive around her, but she is hardly articulate;
the book is full of words--preachings, speeches, daily talk, aphorisms,
but a space of silence remains about her in the midst of the story. And
the disproportion of passion--the inner disproportion--is at least as
tragic as that disproportion of fate and action; it is less intelligible,
and leads into the intricacies of nature which are more difficult than
the turn of events.

It seems, then, that this passionate play is acted within the narrow
limits of a child's nature far oftener than in those of an adult and
finally formed nature. And this, evidently, because there is unequal
force at work within a child, unequal growth and a jostling of powers and
energies that are hurrying to their development and pressing for exercise