I looked at her, but I could not see her, I could not hear her, I could not draw my breath.  The beating of my heart was so violent and wild that I felt as if my life were breaking from me.  But when she caught me to her breast, kissed me, wept over me, compassionated me, and called me back to myself; when she fell down on her knees and cried to me, “Oh, my child, my child, I am your wicked and unhappy mother!  Oh, try to forgive me!”—­when I saw her at my feet on the bare earth in her great agony of mind, I felt, through all my tumult of emotion, a burst of gratitude to the providence of God that I was so changed as that I never could disgrace her by any trace of likeness, as that nobody could ever now look at me and look at her and remotely think of any near tie between us.

I raised my mother up, praying and beseeching her not to stoop before me in such affliction and humiliation.  I did so in broken, incoherent words, for besides the trouble I was in, it frightened me to see her at my feet.  I told her—­or I tried to tell her—­that if it were for me, her child, under any circumstances to take upon me to forgive her, I did it, and had done it, many, many years.  I told her that my heart overflowed with love for her, that it was natural love which nothing in the past had changed or could change.  That it was not for me, then resting for the first time on my mother’s bosom, to take her to account for having given me life, but that my duty was to bless her and receive her, though the whole world turned from her, and that I only asked her leave to do it.  I held my mother in my embrace, and she held me in hers, and among the still woods in the silence of the summer day there seemed to be nothing but our two troubled minds that was not at peace.

“To bless and receive me,” groaned my mother, “it is far too late.  I must travel my dark road alone, and it will lead me where it will.  From day to day, sometimes from hour to hour, I do not see the way before my guilty feet.  This is the earthly punishment I have brought upon myself.  I bear it, and I hide it.”

Even in the thinking of her endurance, she drew her habitual air of proud indifference about her like a veil, though she soon cast it off again.

“I must keep this secret, if by any means it can be kept, not wholly for myself.  I have a husband, wretched and dishonouring creature that I am!”

These words she uttered with a suppressed cry of despair, more terrible in its sound than any shriek.  Covering her face with her hands, she shrank down in my embrace as if she were unwilling that I should touch her; nor could I, by my utmost persuasions or by any endearments I could use, prevail upon her to rise.  She said, no, no, no, she could only speak to me so; she must be proud and disdainful everywhere else; she would be humbled and ashamed there, in the only natural moments of her life.