She turned her eyes towards the door and perceived her son.
The expression of stern severity on her face became sterner and more severe.
She said nothing. But about her closed mouth was something which said: “You are in a bad way, Joh Fredersen....”
And as a judge did she regard him.
Joh Fredersen took his hat from his head. Then she saw the white hair above his brow....
“Child—!” she said quietly, stretching her hands out towards him.
Joh Fredersen fell on his knees by his mother’s side. He threw his arms about her, pressing his head into the lap, which had borne him. He felt her hands on his hair—felt how she touched it, as though fearful of hurting him, as though this white hair was the mark of an unhealed wound, very near the heart, and heard her dear voice saying:
“Child.... My child.... My poor child....”
The rustling of the walnut tree before the window filled a long silence with longing and affection. Then Joh Fredersen began to speak. He spoke with the eagerness of one bathing himself in Holy water, with the fervour of a conquered one, confessing, with the redemption of one ready to do any penance, and who was pardoned. His voice was soft and sounded as though coming from far away, from the farther bank of a wide river.
He spoke of Freder; then his voice failed him entirely. He raised himself from his knees and walked through the room. When he turned around there stood in his eyes a smiling loneliness and the realisation of a necessary giving-up—of the tree’s giving up of the ripe fruit.