The nurse rose from her chair and, lifting her brows and pouting her lips, looked at the upturned, stonily rigid face. Molly entered at the door opposite, with her simple good-natured face and tear-stained eyes.

“Why, she told me one should not grieve, but she has herself been crying,” thought the mother. Then she turned her gaze to the dead. For a moment she was startled and repelled by the dreadful likeness the dead face bore to that of the old man she had seen in her dream; but she drove away that thought, and, crossing herself, touched with her warm lips the small cold waxen forehead. Then she kissed the crossed rigid little hands; and suddenly the scent of the hyacinths told her, as it were afresh, that he was gone and would return no more; and she was stifled by sobs, and again kissed him on the forehead, and wept for the first time. She wept, but not with despair; her tears were resigned and tender. She suffered, but no longer rebelled or complained; and she knew that what had happened had to be, and was therefore good.