“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

Exhausted with the painful uncertainty of the day, I fell asleep, dressed, on my bed.  Suddenly my wife aroused me.  In her hand a candle was flickering, which appeared to me in the middle of the night as bright as the sun.  And behind the candle her chin, too, was trembling, and enormous, unfamiliar dark eyes stared motionlessly.

“Do you know,” she said, “do you know they are building barricades on our street?”

It was quiet.  We looked straight into each other’s eyes, and I felt my face turning pale.  Life vanished somewhere and then returned again with a loud throbbing of the heart.  It was quiet and the flame of the candle was quivering, and it was small, dull, but sharp-pointed, like a crooked sword.

“Are you afraid?” I asked.

The pale chin trembled, but her eyes remained motionless and looked at me, without blinking, and only now I noticed what unfamiliar, what terrible eyes they were.  For ten years I had looked into them and had known them better than my own eyes, and now there was something new in them which I am unable define.  I would have called it pride, but there was something different in them, something new, entirely new.  I took her hand; it was cold.  She grasped my hand firmly and there was something new, something I had not known before, in her handclasp.

She had never before clasped my hand as she did this time.

“How long?” I asked.

“About an hour already.  Your brother has gone away.  He was apparently afraid that you would not let him go, so he went away quietly.  But I saw it.”

It was true then; the time had arrived.  I rose, and, for some reason, spent a long time washing myself, as was my wont in the morning before going to work, and my wife held the light.  Then we put out the light and walked over to the window overlooking the street.  It was spring; it was May, and the air that came in from the open window was such as we had never before felt in that old, large city.  For several days the factories and the roads had been