She had kept his hand, and led him to the nearest bench. He disengaged his hand, and shrank a little from her. She did not notice that.
"Yes," she repeated. "I stood by your mother's grave yesterday. It is a beautiful stone, simple but beautiful."
"Father and I liked it," the boy said a little nervously. "We—we went there to say good-bye before—before going away, you know."
"Ah," she said, "you are going away then? Are you going to leave 'Falun'?"
"Yes," he said, "for a few months. Father is not well."
There was a pause, and then she said suddenly:
"Alan, you will never forget your dear mother, will you? She died in such a sad, sad way—it breaks one's heart to think of it—doesn't it?—all alone—without a kind word—a kind look—nothing—no one near her—no one to help her—alone."
The boy bit his lips. Something pulled at his heartstrings.
"You must always think lovingly of her," she continued. "You must always think the very best of her. She was a grand, noble woman who had not been understood. When you are older, you will see it all clearly for yourself—see it with your own eyes, not with any one else's eyes, and then you will know how unhappy she was, and how sad she was all—all the days of her married life. Poor darling, she was lonely in life and lonely in death—you must never forget that—you must be loyal to her—you, her son. You were good to her; you loved her; you would have loved her more if—if your father had allowed you, Alan."
The boy's face was rigid.