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It was about the middle of March that I first received the news of my father's death. The night before I was restive, excited and unhappy, I knew not why. But my thoughts were turned homewards. I thought of those whom I had left behind. I thought most of my father. It was a bad night for a heavy sleeper like myself. I rose early, dressed and went down to the parlour where Mr. Chatterjee and myself used to have our meals. He soon joined me, and we had our breakfast. Later on the postman's knock was heard. It was mail day. Chatterjee got his Indian letter, but there was none for me. It added to my uneasiness. My friend read my thoughts in my face; and, with the quick and responsive sensibility of his nature, he opened his letter in my presence and began to read it aloud. I followed him with the closest attention. He was seated in an easy-chair at one end of the room; I was reclining on a sofa at the other end. All of a sudden, he stopped reading, and, with a sad face and swollen eyes, struggling to conceal his emotion, he gazed affectionately at me. Years' have rolled by. I am in the evening of my life, soon perhaps to join him for whom I grieved. But I have a vivid recollection of the emotions that overwhelmed me. I said to my friend, 'Why do you stop ? Go on.' He would not answer, nor read, but grew sadder as he looked at me. The dark event which was soon to overwhelm me had already cast its shadows ahead. With a trembling voice, but with unfaltering directness of purpose, as if some voice from within was moving my heart and inspiring my tongue, I said to my friend, 'Why don't you read? Is anybody ill at home?' Still no answer. Chatterjee, so frank and communicative, was mute. But I pressed on. The voice within would give me no peace or rest. I repeated, 'Is my father ill?' Still no response. Chatterjee sat like a statue. Finally came the explosion. I asked, amid a flood of tears, 'Is my father living or dead?' Chatterjee immediately dropped the letter and ran to the sofa where I was sitting, and grasped me in his embraces, his tears commingling with mine.

I was dazed, overpowered and lay half stunned. Lalmohan Ghose, Taraknath Palit (afterwards Sir Taraknath Palit), Woomesh Chunder Mazumdar, who died three years later as the result of a riding accident, Keshub Chunder Sen, who was then in England, and other friends saw me soon after. Mazumdar stayed with me the night, as my friends would not allow me to be alone in my room. The incidents of that day I can never forget, and associated with them now are the hallowed memories of departed friends