"But I'm going to take you back, mama. To papa's grave. To Aylorff's. But don't eat your heart out until it comes, darling. I'm going to take you back, mama, with every wreath in the stack; only, you mustn't eat out your heart in spells. You mustn't, mama; you mustn't."
Sobs rumbled up through Mrs. Horowitz, which her hand to her mouth tried to constrict.
"For his people he died. The papers—I begged he should burn them—he couldn't—I begged he should keep in his hate—he couldn't—in the square he talked it—the soldiers—he died for his people—they got him—the soldiers—his feet in the snow when they took him—the blood in the snow—O my God!—my—God!"
"Mama darling, please don't go over it all again. What's the use making yourself sick? Please!"
She was well forward in her chair now, winding her dry hands one over the other with a small rotary motion.
"I was rocking—Shila-baby in my lap—stirring on the fire black lentils for my boy—black lentils—he—"
"Mama!"
"My boy. Like his father before him. My—"
"Mama, please! Selene is coming any minute now. You know how she hates it. Don't let yourself think back, mama. A little will-power, the doctor says, is all you need. Think of to-morrow, mama; maybe, if you want, you can come down and sit in the store awhile and—"
"I was rocking. O my God! I was rocking, and—"