"There you are—come home!" she mumbled, staggered by the unexpectedness of the event. She sat down.
He bent down to her with a pale face, little tears glistened brightly in the corners of his eyes, and his lips trembled. For a moment he was silent. The mother looked at him, and was silent also.
The Little Russian, whistling softly, passed by them with bent head and walked out into the yard.
"Thank you, mother," said Pavel in a deep, low voice, pressing her hand with his trembling fingers. "Thank you, my dear, my own mother!"
Rejoiced at the agitated expression of her son's face and the touching sound of his voice, she stroked his hair and tried to restrain the palpitation of her heart. She murmured softly:
"Christ be with you! What have I done for you? It isn't I who have made you what you are. It's you yourself——"
"Thank you for helping our great cause!" he said. "When a man can call his mother his own in spirit also—that's rare fortune!"
She said nothing, and greedily swallowed his words. She admired her son as he stood before her so radiant and so near.
"I was silent, mother dear. I saw that many things in my life hurt you. I was sorry for you, and yet I could not help it. I was powerless! I thought you could never get reconciled to us, that you could never adopt our ideas as yours, but that you would suffer in silence as you had suffered all your life long. It was hard."
"Andriusha made me understand many things!" she declared, in her desire to turn her son's attention to his comrade.