oh, what a dear boy!"

In his room Yura demanded that father himself undress him. "Now, you
are getting cranky," said father. "I don't know how to do it; let mamma
undress you."

"But you stay here."

Mamma had deft fingers and she undressed him quickly, and while she was
removing his clothes Yura held father by the hand. He ordered the nurse
out of the room; but as father was beginning to grow angry, and he might
guess what had happened in the arbour, decided to let him go. But while
kissing him he said cunningly:

"He will not scold you any more, will he?"

Papa smiled. Then he laughed, kissed Yura once more and said:

"No, no. And if he does I will throw him across the fence."

"Please, do," said Yura. "You can do it. You are so strong."

"Yes, I am pretty strong. But you had better sleep! Mamma will stay here
with you a while."

Mamma said:

"I will send the nurse in. I must attend to the supper."

Father shouted:

"There is plenty of time for that! You can stay a while with the child."

But mamma insisted:

"We have guests! We can't leave them that way."

But father looked at her steadfastly, and shrugged his shoulders. Mamma
decided to stay.

"Very well, then, I'll stay here. But see that Maria does not mix up the
wines."

Usually it was thus: when mamma sat near Yura as he was falling asleep
she held his hand until the last moment--that is what she usually did.
But now she sat as though she were all alone, as though Yura, her son,
who was falling asleep, was not there at all--she folded her hands in
her lap and looked into the distance. To attract her attention Yura
stirred, but mamma said briefly:

"Sleep."

And she continued to look. But when Yura's eyes had grown heavy and he
was falling asleep with all his sorrow and his tears, mamma suddenly
went down on her knees before the little bed and kissed Yura firmly
many, many times. But her kisses were wet--hot and wet.

"Why are your kisses wet? Are you crying?" muttered Yura.

"Yes, I am crying."

"You must not cry."

"Very well, I won't," answered mother submissively.

And again she kissed him firmly, firmly, frequently, frequently. Yura
lifted both hands with a heavy movement, clasped his mother around the
neck and pressed his burning cheek firmly to her wet and cold cheek.
She was his mother, after all; there was nothing to be done. But how
painful; how bitterly painful!

A STORY WHICH WILL NEVER BE FINISHED

Exhau