herself and her own grief.
She ran to her father, but he feebly waved his arm, pointing to her mother's door. Princess Mary, pale and with quivering chin, came out from that room and taking Natasha by the arm said something to her. Natasha neither saw nor heard her. She went in with rapid steps, pausing at the door for an instant as if struggling with herself, and then ran to her mother.
The countess was lying in an armchair in a strange and awkward position, stretching out and beating her head against the wall. Sonya and the maids were holding her arms.
'Natasha! Natasha!...' cried the countess. 'It's not true... it's not true... He's lying... Natasha!' she shrieked, pushing those around her away. 'Go away, all of you; it's not true! Killed!... ha, ha, ha!... It's not true!'
Natasha put one knee on the armchair, stooped over her mother, embraced her, and with unexpected strength raised her, turned her face toward herself, and clung to her.
'Mummy!... darling!... I am here, my dearest Mummy,' she kept on whispering, not pausing an instant.
She did not let go of her mother but struggled tenderly with her, demanded a pillow and hot water, and unfastened and tore open her mother's dress.
'My dearest darling... Mummy, my precious!...' she whispered incessantly, kissing her head, her hands, her face, and feeling her own irrepressible and streaming tears tickling her nose and cheeks.
The countess pressed her daughter's hand, closed her eyes, and became quiet for a moment. Suddenly she sat up with unaccustomed swiftness, glanced vacantly around her, and seeing Natasha began to press her daughter's head with all her strength. Then she turned toward her daughter's face which was wincing with pain and gazed long at it.
'Natasha, you love me?' she said in a soft trustful whisper. 'Natasha, you would not deceive me? You'll tell me the whole truth?'
Natasha looked at her with eyes full of tears and in her look there was nothing but love and an entreaty for forgiveness.
'My darling Mummy!' she repeated, straining all the power of her love to find some way of taking on herself the excess of grief that crushed her mother.
And again in a futile struggle with reality her mother, refusing to believe that she could live when her beloved boy was killed in the bloom of life, escaped from reality into a world of delirium.
Natasha did not remember how that day passed nor that night, nor the next day and night. She did not sleep and did not leave her mother. Her persevering and patient love seemed completely to surround the countess every moment, not explaining or consoling, but recalling her to life.
During the third night the countess kept very quiet for a few minutes, and Natasha rested her head on the arm of her chair and closed her eyes, but opened them again on hearing the bedstead creak. The countess was sitting up in bed and speaking softly.
'How glad I am you have come. You are tired. Won't you have some tea?' Natasha went up to her. 'You have improved in looks and grown more manly,' continued the countess, taking her daughter's hand.
'Mamma! What are you saying...'
'Natasha, he is no more, no more!'
And embracing her daughter, the countess began to weep for the first time.
CHAPTER III
Princess Mary postponed her departure. Sonya and the count tried to replace Natasha but could not. They saw that she alone was able to restrain her mother from unreasoning despair. For three weeks Natasha remained constantly at her mother's side, sleeping on a lounge chair in her room, making her eat and drink, and talking to her incessantly because the mere sound of her tender, caressing tones soothed her mother.
The mother's wounded spirit could not heal. Petya's death had torn from her half her life. When the news of Petya's death had come she had been a fresh and vigorous woman of fifty, but a month later she left her room a listless old woman taking no interest in life. But the same blow that almost killed the countess, this second blow, restored Natasha to life.
A spiritual wound produced by a rending of the spiritual body is like a physical wound and, strange as it may seem, just as a deep wound may heal and its edges join, physical and spiritual wounds alike can yet heal completely only as the result of a vital force from within.
Natasha's wound healed in that way. She thought her life was ended, but her love for her mother unexpectedly showed her that the essence of life--love--was still active within her. Love awoke and so did life.
Prince Andrew's last days had bound Princess Mary and Natasha together; this new sorrow brought them still closer to one another. Princess Mary put off her departure, and for three weeks looked after Natasha as if she had been a sick child. The last weeks passed in her mother's bedroom had strained Natasha's physical strength.
One afternoon noticing Natasha shivering with fever, Princess Mary took her to her own room and made her lie down on the bed. Natasha lay down, but when Princess Mary had drawn the blinds and was going away she called her back.
'I don't want to sleep, Mary, sit by me a little.'
'You are tired--try to sleep.'
'No, no. Why did you bring me away? She will be asking for me.'
'She is much better. She spoke so well today,' said Princess Mary.
Natasha lay on the bed and in the semidarkness of the room scanned Princess Mary's face.
'Is she like him?' thought Natasha. 'Yes, like and yet not like. But she is quite original, strange, new, and unknown. And she loves me. What is in her heart? All that is good. But how? What is her mind like? What does she
