The Little Russian pushed Pavel away, and with a light movement, also wiping his eyes with his fingers, he said:
"Enough! When the calves have had their frolic, they must go to the shambles. What beastly coal this is! I blew and blew on it, and got some of the dust in my eyes."
Pavel sat at the window with bent head, and said mildly:
"You needn't be ashamed of such tears."
The mother walked up to him, and sat down beside him. Her heart was wrapped in a soft, warm, daring feeling. She felt sad, but pleasant and at ease.
"It's all the same!" she thought, stroking her son's hand. "It can't be helped; it must be so!"
She recalled other such commonplace words, to which she had been accustomed for a long time; but they did not give adequate expression to all she had lived through that moment.
"I'll put the dishes on the table; you stay where you are, mother," said the Little Russian, rising from the floor, and going into the room. "Rest a while. Your heart has been worn out with such blows!"
And from the room his singing voice, raised to a higher pitch, was heard.
"It's not a nice thing to boast of, yet I must say we tasted the right life just now, real, human, loving life. It does us good."