"You never tell me anything, either," said Arne, gently.
"But you are most to blame, Arne. I got so into the habit of being silent in your father's day that you ought to have helped me a little on the way! My God! there are only two of us, and we have suffered so much together!"
"Let us see if we cannot do better," whispered Arne. "Next Sunday I will read the sermon to you."
"God bless you for that! Arne?"
"Yes?"
"I have something I ought to say to you."
"Say it, mother."
"I have sinned greatly against you; I have done something wrong."
"You, mother?" And it touched him so deeply that his own good, infinitely patient mother should accuse herself of having sinned against him, who had never been really good to her, that he put his arm round her, patted her, and burst into tears.
"Yes, I have; and yet I could not help it."