Ivo was already in bed, His mother stole softly into the room once
more. She shaded the oil-lamp which she carried with her hand, in order
not to disturb him if he slept; but Ivo was awake, and, as her hand
smoothed the cover under his chin and then rested on his head, she
said, "Pray, Ivo dear, and you'll sleep well. Good-night!"

He wept bitterly when she had gone. A vision of light seemed to have
passed away, leaving him in total darkness. He felt as if a strange and
distant roof covered him already. To-morrow he knew his mother would
not come to him thus, and he sobbed into the pillows. He thought of
Emmerence, and of the other people in the village: they were all so
dear to him, and he could not imagine how they would do when he was
gone, and whether things would really go on without him just as they
always had done. He thought they ought to miss him as much as he longed
to be with them: he wept for himself and for them, and his tears seemed
to have no end. At last he nerved himself, folded his hands, prayed
aloud with a fervor as if he strained God and all the saints to his
bosom, and fell gently asleep.

With his eyes half shut, Ivo struck about him when Nat came with the
light: he thought it absurd to get up when he had hardly begun his
first nap. But Nat said, sorrowfully, "No help for it: up with you. You
must learn to get up now when other people bid you."

He staggered about the room as if he were tipsy. A good cup of coffee
brought him to his senses.

The house was all astir; and Ivo took a weeping farewell of his
brothers and sisters. Bart was already seated by Nat's side on the
board, which had the bag of oats for a cushion: his mother was getting
into the wagon, and Joe, his eldest brother, held the dun's head.
Valentine lifted up his son and kissed him: it was the first time in
his life that he gave him this token of love. Ivo threw his arms around
his neck and wept aloud. Valentine was visibly touched; but, summoning
up all his manhood, he lifted the boy into the wagon, shook his hand,
and said, in a husky tone, "God bless you, Ivo! be a good boy."

His mother threw his father's cloak around them both; the dun started,
and they were on their way through the dark and silent village. Here
and there a taper was burning by the bedside of sickness, while the
unsteady shadows of the watchers flitted across the window. The friends
who lived in all these silent walls bade him no farewell: only the
watch