“I am going to get up a little today,” she says and turns to my sister, who is continually running to the kitchen to watch that the food does not burn: “And put out that jar of preserved whortleberries⁠—you like that, don’t you?” she asks me.

“Yes, Mother, I haven’t had any for a long time.”

“We might almost have known you were coming,” laughs my sister, “there is just your favourite dish, potato-cakes, and even whortleberries to go with them too.”

“And it is Saturday,” I add.

“Sit here beside me,” says my mother.

She looks at me. Her hands are white and sickly and frail compared with mine. We say very little and I am thankful that she asks nothing. What ought I to say? Everything I could have wished for has happened. I have come out of it safely and sit here beside her. And in the kitchen stands my sister preparing supper and singing.

“Dear boy,” says my mother softly.