“Yes,” said Miss Louisa, who found it hard to deceive him. He was silent. He went into the kitchen, sat down heavily in his father’s old chair, and began to pull off his boots. His head was small, rather finely shapen. His brown hair, close and crisp, would look jolly whatever happened. He wore heavy, moleskin trousers that gave off the stale, exhausted scent of the pit. Having put on his slippers, he carried his boots into the scullery.

“What is it·” he asked, afraid.

“Something internal,” she replied.

He went upstairs. His mother kept herself calm for his coming. Louisa felt his tread shake the plaster floor of the bedroom above.

“What have you done·” he asked.

“It’s nothing, my lad,” said the old woman, rather hard. “It’s nothing. You needn’t fret, my boy, it’s nothing more the matter with me than I had yesterday, or last week. The doctor said I’d done nothing serious.”

“What were you doing·” asked her son.

“I was pulling up a cabbage, and I suppose I pulled too hard; for, oh—there was such a pain—”

Her son looked at her quickly. She hardened herself.

“But who doesn’t have a sudden pain sometimes, my boy· We all do.”

“And what’s it done·”

“I don’t know,” she said, “but I don’t suppose it’s anything.”

The big lamp in the corner was screened with a dark green screen, so that he could scarcely see her face. He was strung tight with apprehension and many emotions. Then his brow knitted.

“What did you go pulling your inside out at cabbages for,” he asked, “and the ground frozen· You’d go on dragging and dragging, if you killed yourself.”

“Somebody’s got to get them,” she said.

“You needn’t do yourself harm.”

But they had reached futility.

Miss Louisa could hear plainly downstairs. Her heart sank. It seemed so hopeless between them.

“Are you sure it’s nothing much, mother·” he asked, appealing, after a little silence.

“Ay, it’s nothing,” said the old woman, rather bitter.

“I don’t want you to—to—to be badly—you know.”

“Go and get your dinner,” she said. she knew she was going to die:moreover, the pain was torture just then. “They’re only cosseting me up a bit because I’m an old woman. Miss Louisa’s very good—and she’ll have got your dinner ready, so you’d better go and eat it.”

He felt stupid and ashamed. His mother put him off. He had to turn away. The pain burned in his bowels. He went downstairs. The mother was glad he was gone, so that she could moan with pain.