“Perhaps. But Hel is dead.”
“Well, come here to me, Joh! I will give you a word to take with you on your way, which you cannot forget. It is easy to retain.”
Joh Fredersen hesitated. Then he walked up to his mother. She laid her hand on the bible which lay before her. Joh Fredersen read: ... Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he reap....
Joh Fredersen turned around. He walked through the room. His mother’s eyes followed him. As he turned toward her, suddenly, violently, with a violent word on his lips he found the gaze of her eyes set upon him. They could hide themselves no longer, and neither did they wish to—such an almighty love—such an almighty love, in their tear-washed depths that Joh Fredersen believed himself to see his mother to-day for the first time.
They looked at each other for a long time, in silence.
Then the man stepped up to his mother.
“I am going, now, mother,” he said, “and I don’t believe I shall ever come to you again....”
She did not answer.
It seemed as though he wanted to stretch out his hand to her, but, halfway he let it drop again.
“For whom are you crying, mother,” he asked, “for Freder or for me?”