He followed the streak of light through the little dining-room, faltered a second at the kitchen door, and then advanced to the hearth with hands outstretched as though to save himself from falling.

‘Why have you not gone to bed?’ he asked curtly.

His mother turned to look at him, her dream-haunted face still deathly pale; yet she was steady and quiet, almost stern, and while her eyes sought those of her son, his tried to evade her gaze.

‘I was waiting up for you, Paul. Where have you been?’

He knew instinctively that every word that was not strictly true would be only a useless farce between them; yet he was forced to lie to her.

‘I have been with a sick person,’ he replied quickly.

For an instant his deep voice seemed to disperse the evil dream; for an instant only, and the mother’s face was transfigured with joy. Then the shadow fell again on face and heart.

‘Paul,’ she said gently, lowering her eyes with a feeling of shame, but with no hesitation in her speech, ‘Paul, come nearer to me. I have something to say to you.’

And although he moved no nearer to her, she went on speaking in a low voice, as though close to his ear:

‘I know where you have been. For many nights now I have heard you go out, and to-night I followed you and saw where you went. Paul, think of what you are doing!’

He did not answer, made no sign that he had heard. His mother raised her eyes and beheld him standing tall and straight above her, pale as death, his shadow cast by the lamp upon the wall behind him, motionless as though transfixed upon a cross. And she longed for him to cry out and reproach her, to protest his innocence.

But he was remembering his soul’s appeal as he knelt before the church door, and now God had heard his cry and had sent his own mother to him to save him. He wanted to bow before her, to fall at her knee and implore her to lead him away from the village, then and there, immediately; and at the same time he was shaking with rage and humiliation, humiliation at finding his weakness exposed, rage at having been watched and followed. Yet he grieved for the sorrow he was causing her. Then suddenly he remembered that he had not only to save himself, but to save appearances also.

‘Mother,’ he said, going close to her and placing his hand on her head, ‘I tell you that I have been with someone who is ill.’

‘There is nobody ill in that house.’

‘Not all sick persons are in bed.’

‘Then in that case you yourself are more ill than the woman you went to see, and you must take care of yourself. Paul, I am only an ignorant woman, but I am your mother, and I tell you that sin is an illness worse than any other, because it attacks the soul. Moreover,’ she added, taking his hand and drawing him down towards her that he might hear her better, ‘it is not yourself only that you have to save, O child of God … remember that you must not destroy her soul … nor bring her to harm in this life either.’