He threw his arms about her exclaiming:
"What are you doing, mother; where are you going?"
"I do not know. How should I know—There is nothing left for me to do, now that I am alone."
She struggled to be released. Holding her firmly, he could find only words to say again and again:
"Mother, mother, mother!" And through all her efforts to free herself she was saying:
"No, no. I am not your mother now, poor boy—good-bye."
It struck him clearly that if he let her go now he should never see her again; lifting her up in his arms he carried her to an arm-chair, forced her into it, and kneeling down in front of her barred her in with his arms.
"You shall not quit this spot, mother. I love you and I will keep you! I will keep you always—I love you and you are mine."
She murmured in a dejected tone:
"No, my poor boy, it is impossible. You weep to-night, but to-morrow you would turn me out of the house. You, even you, could not forgive me."
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