Now I hear my mother’s voice. It comes from the bedroom.

“Is she in bed?” I ask my sister.

“She is ill⁠—” she replies.

I go in to her, give her my hand and say as calmly as I can: “Here I am, Mother.”

She lies still in the dim light. Then she asks anxiously:

“Are you wounded?” and I feel her searching glance.

“No, I have got leave.”

My mother is very pale. I am afraid to make a light.

“Here I lie now,” says she, “and cry instead of being glad.”

“Are you sick, Mother?” I ask.