first time, and he seemed to please her — and that is what led her to entrust to him her only daughter... or "the powder keg," as she nicknamed me.

A week later Ernest went away on business, and I stayed with my mother. One day she asked me: are you lonely? I answered that I felt lonely at times; and she counseled me never to fear solitude — it teaches us how to think. I understood from the doctor that my mother would remain in this condition for three years... or more. This news was saddening for me. My mother had, all these days, been close to me; however we were parted and however far apart, I sought her out in my times of failure,

anxiety, and distraction, and she would raise me up and come to my aid — and here I was, watching her pass away before my eyes...

In the days that followed, Ernest told me of the program he was drawing up for the summer season. He wanted me to see the country outside London, so that we might spend the weekends in the outskirts. The idea pleased me and kindled a spark in me, for I was eager for everything new.

And so the summer of 1929 passed with strange swiftness. The experiences profited me greatly, and drew me closer to Ernest, so that I shared his

thoughts more and my happiness increased. In the autumn of that year came the news I had been expecting: my mother's illness had grown worse. Ernest was absorbed in his work, so I traveled to her alone; and three days after my arrival, my mother departed this life, not knowing that I was at her side.

It is part of mankind's good fortune that grief, however harsh, does not last; a person always keeps the memory of the happy times and casts unhappi-ness aside.