But I knew the feeling was there.

The Persian writer put up his paper, and closed his inkstand, and the following dialogue, word for word, took place between me and the old man: _Question_ .-- What made you conceal the real cause of your boy's death, and tell the police that he had been killed, as well as eaten, by wolves?
_Answer_ .-- The landholders told me that they could never bring back my boy to life, and the whole village would be worried to death by them if I made any mention of the poison.
_Question_ .-- And if they were to be punished for this they would annoy you?
_Answer_ .-- Certainly.

But I believed they advised me for my own good as well as their own.
_Question_ .-- And if they should turn you away from that place, could you not make another?
_Answer_.-Are not the bones of my poor boy there, and the trees that he and I planted and watched together for ten years?
_Question_.-Have you no other relations?
What became of your boy's mother?
_Answer_.-She died at that place when my boy was only three months old.

I have brought him up myself from that age; he was my only child, and he has been poisoned for the sake of the blanket! (Here the poor old man sobbed as if his heartstrings would break; and I was obliged to make him sit down on the floor while I walked up and down the room.) _Question_ .-- Had you any children before?
_Answer_ .-- Yes, sir, we had several, but they all died before their mother.

We had been reduced to beggary by misfortunes, and I had become too weak and ill to work.