OSWALD. I'm glad of that. Oh, I may still have much to rejoice in and live for—

MRS. ALVING. I should think so, indeed!

OSWALD. Even if I can't work—

MRS. ALVING. Oh, you'll soon be able to work again, my dear boy—now that you haven't got all those gnawing and depressing thoughts to brood over any longer.

OSWALD. Yes, I'm glad you were able to rid me of all those fancies. And when I've got over this one thing more—[Sits on the sofa.] Now we will have a little talk, mother—

MRS. ALVING. Yes, let us. [She pushes an arm-chair towards the sofa, and sits down close to him.]

OSWALD. And meantime the sun will be rising. And then you will know all. And then I shall not feel this dread any longer.

MRS. ALVING. What is it that I am to know?

OSWALD. [Not listening to her.] Mother, did you not say a little while ago, that there was nothing in the world you would not do for me, if I asked you?

MRS. ALVING. Yes, indeed I said so!

OSWALD. And you'll stick to it, mother?

MRS. ALVING. You may rely on that, my dear and only boy! I have nothing in the world to live for but you alone.

OSWALD. Very well, then; now you shall hear—Mother, you have a strong, steadfast mind, I know. Now you're to sit quite still when you hear it.

MRS. ALVING. What dreadful thing can it be—?

OSWALD. You're not to scream out. Do you hear? Do you promise me that? We will sit and talk about it quietly. Do you promise me, mother?

MRS. ALVING. Yes, yes; I promise. Only speak!

OSWALD. Well, you must know that all this fatigue—and my inability to think of work—all that is not the illness itself—

MRS. ALVING. Then what is the illness itself?

OSWALD. The disease I have as my birthright—[He points to his forehead and adds very softly]—is seated here.

MRS. ALVING. [Almost voiceless.] Oswald! No—no!

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