"Very well, then, I'll stay here. But see that Maria does not mix
up the wines."

Usually it was thus: when mamma sat near Yura as he was falling
asleep she held his hand until the last moment--that is what she
usually did. But now she sat as though she were all alone, as though
Yura, her son, who was falling asleep, was not there at all--she
folded her hands in her lap and looked into the distance. To attract
her attention Yura stirred, but mamma said briefly:

"Sleep."

And she continued to look. But when Yura's eyes had grown heavy and
he was falling asleep with all his sorrow and his tears, mamma
suddenly went down on her knees before the little bed and kissed Yura
firmly many, many times. But her kisses were wet--hot and wet.

"Why are your kisses wet? Are you crying?" muttered Yura.

"Yes, I am crying."

"You must not cry."

"Very well, I won't," answered mother submissively.

And again she kissed him firmly, firmly, frequently, frequently.
Yura lifted both hands with a heavy movement, clasped his mother
around the neck and pressed his burning cheek firmly to her wet and
cold cheek. She was his mother, after all; there was nothing to be