He knelt down by the bed and laid his face on her shoulder, just as he used to do when he was a child. Neither of them spoke. She moved her hand and clasped his arm that he placed over her, and they remained like this for some minutes, while a great peace enclosed them. In those few minutes it seemed as if years dropped away from them and they were young again. She the motherly young woman, and he the motherless boy to whom she stood as mother. All the interval was forgotten and there they were still, mother and son.
When at last he raised himself he found that her eyes were dim with tears. As to himself, he felt strangely quieted and composed. He pulled a chair to the bedside and sat down, not facing her, but sideways, and he rested his elbow on the edge of her pillow his other hand resting on hers.
"Did you get through all you wanted to, in Town?" she asked, smiling through her tears.
"Lena!" he said in a low voice, "you want to spare me. You always do."
His voice overwhelmed her. His humility pierced her like a sword.
"It was all my fault, dear," she began; "entirely my fault."
"No," he said, in a low emphatic voice.
"It was." She reiterated this with almost a sullen persistence.
"How could it possibly be your fault?" he said, with deep self-reproach.
"It was," she said, "though I cannot make you understand it. Jim, you must forget it all, for my sake. You must forget it at once, you have things to do."