She caught me in her arms quite eagerly, she pressed me to her—a
strange thing for her to do. I perceived her eyes were extraordinarily
bright, and then this brightness burst along the lower lids and rolled
down her cheeks.
For the first and last time in my life I saw my mother’s tears. Then
she had gone, leaving me discomforted and perplexed, forgetting for a
time even that I was to learn Latin, thinking of my mother as of
something new and strange.
The thing recurred though I sought to dismiss it, it stuck itself into
my memory against the day of fuller understanding. Poor, proud,
habitual, sternly narrow soul! poor difficult and misunderstanding son!
it was the first time that ever it dawned upon me that my mother also
might perhaps feel.