ch I could no longer bear； and hid myself away here in the country。 The other day I found a letter of this period； sent to me as an enclosure on some matter； in which the writer speaks of me as being “quite unapproachable since the death of his only son。” So； indeed； I think I was。 Moreover； at this time the influenza attacked me again and again； and left me very weak。
We did not e home at once — what was the good of returning to the desolated home？ Our boy had died in a strange house and been brought to Ditchingham for burial。 What was the good of returning home？ So there； far away； in due course letters reached us with these dreadful details and heart…piercing messages of farewell。
And now I have done with this terrible episode and will get me to my tale again。 The wound has been seared by time — few； perhaps none； would guess that it existed； but it will never heal。 I think I may say that from then till now no day has passed； and often no hour； when the thought of my lost boy has not been present with me。 I can only bow the head and murmur； “God’s will be done！”
I remember reading in one of R。 L。 Stevenson’s published letters； written after he had helped to nurse a sick child； that nothing would induce him to bee a father； for fear； I gathered； lest one day he might be called upon to nurse his own sick child。 I can well understand the effect of the experience on a highly sensitive nature； and； as a matter of fact； he died childless。 Yet； as I read； I wondered what he would have felt had such a lightning shaft as fell upon my head from heaven smitten and shattered him。
Perhaps； being frail； he would have died。 But I was tougher； and lived on。 More： I went among murderers and escaped； I wandered into the fever lands； and never took it； the b