“Now come to your room.” Like two returning penitents they crept slowly behind him.
“Who is that?” he asked, in his severest voice, pointing to the picture. It was a portrait of their mother, taken in early youth, almost effaced by the lapse of time. But they recognized it very well, and, wringing their hands, fell on their knees before the bed and sobbed pitifully on the pillow.
And then they confessed everything to him. It was worse than he had ever imagined.
A dreadful silence ensued. Paul stepped to the window and looked out into the night.
“Thank God you are dead, mother!” he said, folding his hands.
Then they wept aloud, crept up to him on their knees, and wanted to kiss his hands. He stroked their hair. He loved them far too well.
“Children, children!” he said, sinking down in a chair, almost as helpless as they were.
“Scold us, Paul,” sobbed Kate.
“No, rather beat us,” urged Greta; “we have deserved it.”
He passed his hand across his brow. It all still seemed to him like a bad dream.