. . . Four years! and during that time the width of the earth between us
and our loved one!

I recall particularly my mother's face during the farewell scene; she
was seated in an arm chair beside my brother. After the prayer she had
upon her face an infinitely sweet, but wistful smile, and an expression
of submissive trust; but suddenly an unexpected change came over her
features, and in spite of her efforts at self-control her tears flowed.
I had never before seen my mother weep, and it caused me the greatest
anguish.

The first few days after his departure I had a feeling of sadness, and I
missed him greatly; often and often I went into his room, and the
little treasures which he had confided to my care were as sacred as holy
relics.

Upon a map of the world I had my parents point out to me the route of
his journey, a journey which would take about five months. To me his
return belonged to an inconceivable and unreal future; and, most strange
of all, what spoiled for me the pleasure of his home-coming, was that I
at that time would be twelve or thirteen years of age--almost a big boy
in fact.

Unlike most other children,--especially unlike those of to-day--who are
eager to become men and women as speedily as possible, I had a terror
of growing up, which became more and more accentuated as I grew older. I
argued about it to myself, and I wrote about it, and when any one asked
me why I had such a feeling I answered, since I could not think of a
better reason: "It seems to me that it will be very wearisome to be
a man." I believe that it is an extremely singular state of mind, an