I feel it in my heart." She paused, and her eyes took on a sombre tone.

Presently, with a slight, husky pain in her voice, like the faint echo of a wail, she went on: "Now that he's going, I'm glad we've had the things he gave us, things that can't be taken away from us.

What you have enjoyed is yours for ever and ever.

It's memory; and for one moment or for one day or one year of those things you loved, there's fifty years, perhaps, for memory.

Don't you remember the verses I cut out of the magazine: "'Time, the ruthless idol-breaker, Smileless, cold iconoclast, Though he rob us of our altars, Cannot rob us of the past.'" "That's the way your father used to talk," replied her mother.