In the morning, when the sun rose, he dipped his head into icy cold water and went to work.
His presence brought peace to his mother, in so far that she could sleep at times when he was by. Then he used to go on tip-toe to his room and fetch down his books on physics, in which the construction of steam-engines was so learnedly and unintelligibly set forth. His head, tired with watching and unaccustomed to any mental work, with difficulty grasped the sense of the mysterious words; but he had time, and indefatigably he worked on, page by page, as a peasant ploughs a stony field.
If his mother opened her eyes, she would ask,
“How are you getting on, my son?”
And then he had to explain it to her, and she pretended to understand something about it.
But if she asked, “Why are you doing this?” he would put on a knowing look, and reply, “I am learning to make gold.”
“My poor boy,” she would answer, stroking his hand.
One night, immediately after the Whitsuntide holidays, she again could not sleep.
“Read me something from those learned books,” she said; “they bore one so nicely. Perhaps they will send me to sleep.”
And he did as she asked him; but when he had been reading almost an hour, he saw that she was gazing at him with big, feverish eyes, and was further than ever from sleep.