“Stay.”

“I can’t.”

She looked at her son, at the window, at the sky, and said softly:

“Do stay. I’ll cover my mug with a kerchief. … I do so want to thank you on my son’s account. I’ll cover up, eh?”

She spoke persuasively, humanly, so affectionately, with such warm feeling. And her eyes, a child’s eyes in a hideous face, shone with the smile not of a beggar, but of a person of wealth who can show gratitude in a substantial way.

“Mom,” the boy cried suddenly, starting, and hitching himself up. “They’re crawling! Mom, come!”

“He’s dreaming,” she said to me, bending over him.

I went out into the court-yard, and stood there, thinking. A nasal voice was pouring from the open window of the cellar singing a song with a jolly tune. The mother was singing a strange lullaby to her son, uttering the words distinctly:

I walked quickly out of the court-yard, gritting my teeth so as not to bawl.

1917.