But when his mother had vainly waited for him, and some one
suggested that he might be in the house, she went to his room.

He heard her on the stairs; he felt that she was at the door. When
she entered he had hidden his head beneath the bedclothes. She
dragged them back; and at the first sight of her dismay he was
reduced to such despair that the tears which were beginning to
flow ceased at once.

White and horror-struck she stood there; indeed she thought at
first that some one had done it maliciously; but when she could
not extract a word of enlightenment, she suspected mischief.

He felt that she was waiting for an explanation, an excuse, a
prayer for forgiveness, but he could not, for the life of him, get
out a word.

What, indeed, could he say? He did not understand it himself. But
now he began to cry violently. He huddled himself together,
clasping his head between his hands. It felt like a bristly
stubble.

When he looked up again his mother was gone.

A child sleeps in spite of everything. He came down the next
morning in a contrite mood and thoroughly shamefaced. His mother
was not up; she was unwell, for she had not slept a wink. He heard
this before he went to her. He opened her door timidly. There she
lay, the picture of wretchedness.