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 were convinced at last. He had smiled again in his old way, and had said in his usual careless tone:

"Ah, well, we shall live, and we shall see. Progress is still going forward, and we do not yet understand its aim."

And now Serezha no longer lived—he had killed himself. So he hadn't wanted to live and look on at the majestic march of Progress. And what was his mother doing just now? Perhaps kissing his little waxen hand, or perhaps getting supper for the hungry little ones who were doubtless frightened and crying, looking pitiful in their worn-out and untidy clothes. Perhaps she had thrown herself down upon her bed and was weeping,—weeping endlessly. Happy woman, happy, if she could weep. What in this world is sweeter than the comfort of tears!

At length Nadezhda Alexevna reached her sister's home, and went up the staircase to the fourth floor. It was a narrow stone staircase with very steep flights of stairs, and she went up so quickly, almost running, that she lost her breath, and stopped outside the door to rest before