I. THE YEARS THAT ARE NO MORE
		"Sorrow which hungers and is heart-sore, and weeps itself out in tears is a prerogative of humanity. In any sense in which we feel it to be sorrow indeed, to be what we mean by sorrow in the day of our sadness, it does not belong to anything lower in creation; it is our prerogative, our prestige, our dignity". --Moberly
	"But memory---sad in the the task---gathers the golden dust, And ruefully pieces to-gether link and link and link, Shows me the golden thing whole as it was before, Yea, round the core of my heart it casts the golden chain, My golden, golden chain." Is this the day of his return? Hearts beat high with fond expectation. Brothers and sisters and mother wait to receive him into the arms of love. Eyes are strained for the first glimpse of the fair ship- fairer than the bereaved poets--that bring him from English shore laden with honors, crowned with distinctions, and wearing on his serene brow the laurels of learning. Loving ones, long to be the foremost to shake him by the hand and give him a cordial welcome home. A light shines in the eyes of the mother at hope of seeing the Benjamin of her family once more near her after the separation of years, miles and seas, near her, to be greeted with her kisses not less warm, not less fond, than those she had lavished on him in the days of her darling boy's curls and prattle. The sisters, rejoicing in their brother's joys and glad in his great achievements, are gladder that the love with which they petted their little brother in the early years would be none the less when they see their little hero a full grown man, manly, graceful to look upon and lovable as of old; and I, who had learnt to love him long before a daughter of his house had linked her destinies to mine, count and recount a hundred things on which I would hold converse with him and with me when we meet things attempted, things achieved, hopes realised and ambitions attained. So glad is the meeting of friends-how rapturous will be the greeting when I meet him.   Dear as the mother to the son More than my brothers are to me! What a glad delusion, joy-giving and full of peace! But the reality how intensely sorrowful how grievously heartbreaking! Is this the year of his return? But he returns not, no fair ship brings him home, eyes that ought to be bright with joy are misty with tears, and hearts that were once expectant are heavy with sorrow. Memories, joyous memories tinged with grief make sport of our feelings arid seem to counterfeit reality. I well remember the days, even now after eight of many incidents, when little boy in shorts used regularly come to me to read the essays of Goldsmith and write his own after the manner of the Citizen of the World. Vividly do I recall the cheerful face, with a never failing smile on it, of that boy-figure of whom there is now left to me but a memory. The rock-girt shore of Mount Lavinia, the roar and rattle of passing trains, the busy days of work and the Sabbath quiet conjure, to my mind the laborious student and friend of many confidences, of whom there is now left to me but a memory. Of books and men, common things and God, we held converse and wrote and thought to the enriching of our minds and the ennobling of our spirits - he was the sharer of my thoughts and my constant companion-my soul is bereaved, and there is now left to it but the comfort of a memory. It seems but yesterday - day that we stood together silence of the tall teaks of his house and talked of many things, clasped hands and clasped again, bade adieu and bade once more; it yesterday that my eyes to the last turn of the heels of the coach that took away from me my dearest friend - O, that I had known that I was to see him no more in this life! I read today his first letter from Oxford wishing me joy on a great event in my life and the words sound in my ears with the dear familiarity of his voice as I had hear him last.