father when he arrived and sat down on his knees patronisingly, one
could see in the boy a man who fulfilled his duty to the end. At
times father could not understand him and would simply send him away
to play or to sleep--Yura never felt offended and went away with a
feeling of great satisfaction. He did not feel the need of being
understood; he even feared it. At times he would not tell under any
circumstances why he was crying; at times he would make believe that
he was absent minded, that he heard nothing, that he was occupied
with his own affairs, but he heard and understood.

And he had a terrible secret. He had noticed that these
extraordinary and charming people, father and mother, were sometimes
unhappy and were hiding this from everybody. Therefore he was also
concealing his discovery, and gave everybody the impression that all
was well. Many times he found mamma crying somewhere in a corner in
the drawing room, or in the bedroom--his own room was next to her
bedroom--and one night, very late, almost at dawn, he heard the
terribly loud and angry voice of father and the weeping voice of
mother. He lay a long time, holding his breath, but then he was so
terrified by that unusual conversation in the middle of the night
that he could not restrain himself and he asked his nurse in a soft
voice:

"What are they saying?"

And the nurse answered quickly in a whisper:

"Sleep, sleep. They are not saying anything."

"I am coming over to your bed."