She was ready to weep with pity for the Little Russian; but she was grieved still more for her son.
"My dear son! My consecrated one!" she thought.
Suddenly the Little Russian asked: "So I am to keep quiet ?" "That's more honest, Andrey," answered Pavel softly.
"All right! That's the road we will travel." And in a few seconds he added, in a sad and subdued voice: "It will be hard for you, Pasha, when you get to that yourself." "It is hard for me already." "Yes ?" "Yes." The wind brushed along the walls of the house, and the pendulum marked the passing time.
"Um," said the Little Russian leisurely, at last.

"That's too bad." The mother buried her head in the pillow and wept inaudibly.
In the morning Andrey seemed to her to be lower in stature and all the more winning.

But her son towered thin, straight, and taciturn as ever.

She had always called the Little Russian Andrey Stepanovich, in formal address, but now, all at once, involuntarily and unconsciously she said to him: "Say, Andriusha, you had better get your boots mended.

You are apt to catch cold." "On pay day, mother, I'll buy myself a new pair," he answered, smiling.
Then suddenly placing his long hand on her shoulder, he added: "You know, you are my real mother.