Why, what makes your eyes so glassy?
Mother! Have you gone out of your wits —?
[Goes to the head of the bed.]
You mustn’t lie there and stare so —!
Speak, mother; it’s I, your boy!
[Feels her forehead and hands cautiously; then throws the string on the chair, and says softly:]
Ay, ay!— You can rest yourself, Grane;
for even now the journey’s done.
[Closes her eyes, and bends over her.]
For all of your days I thank you,
for beatings and lullabies!—
But see, you must thank me back, now —
[Presses his cheek against her mouth]
There; that was the driver’s fare.