morning, when he had not already left the house before she was visible.
It was rather a formal affair. Greif knocked at the door and waited for
her answer. Being admitted, he went to his mother and kissed her hand.
She kissed his forehead in return. He asked her how she was, and she
inquired what he was going to do during the day. After five minutes of
conversation, he generally took leave of her with the same ceremony,
and departed. He usually avoided being with her at any other time, and
accident rarely brought them together in the course of the day, for
Greif was always with Hilda or with his father. Very gradually, he
began to find this morning visit less irksome. He fancied that his
mother would willingly have detained him a little longer, but that she
felt how little he could care for her society as compared with that of
Hilda. Then, too, she had grown so sad and silent as to excite in him a
sort of pity. At last the feeling that was drawing them closer found
expression.

Greif had made his usual visit one morning and was about to leave the
room. Her sorrowful, faded eyes looked up to his, and slowly filled
with tears. He felt an irresistible impulse to speak, and yielded to
it.

'Mother,' he said, kneeling down beside her, and taking her hand
affectionately in his, 'what is it? Why are you ill, and sad? Will you
not tell me?'

She looked at him a moment longer, wonderingly, as though hardly
believing what she saw. Then she broke down. The long restrained tears
welled up and rolled over her thin cheeks, making lines and patches in
the pink powder, at once grotesque and pitiful. The carefully curled
ringlets of colourless hair contrasted strangely with the sudden havoc