"Shall I look at her again or not?" I said to myself. "Well, just for
the last time," and I peeped out towards the entrance-steps. Exactly at
that moment Mamma moved by the same impulse, came to the opposite side
of the carriage, and called me by name. Rearing her voice behind me. I
turned round, but so hastily that our heads knocked together. She gave a
sad smile, and kissed me convulsively for the last time.

When we had driven away a few paces I determined to look at her once
more. The wind was lifting the blue handkerchief from her head as, bent
forward and her face buried in her hands, she moved slowly up the steps.
Foka was supporting her. Papa said nothing as he sat beside me. I felt
breathless with tears--felt a sensation in my throat as though I were
going to choke, just as we came out on to the open road I saw a white
handkerchief waving from the terrace. I waved mine in return, and the
action of so doing calmed me a little. I still went on crying, but the
thought that my tears were a proof of my affection helped to soothe and
comfort me.

After a little while I began to recover, and to look with interest at
objects which we passed and at the hind-quarters of the led horse which
was trotting on my side. I watched how it would swish its tail, how it
would lift one hoof after the other, how the driver's thong would fall
upon its back, and how all its legs would then seem to jump together and
the back-band, with the rings on it, to jump too--the whole covered with
the horse's foam. Then I would look at the rolling stretches of ripe
corn, at the dark ploughed fields where ploughs and peasants and horses
with foals were working, at their footprints, and at the box of the
carriage to see who was driving us; until, though my face was still wet
with tears, my thoughts had strayed far from her with whom I had just
parted--parted, perhaps, for ever. Yet ever and again something would