THE DEATH OF RUBENS--POLLY'S NEWS--LAST TIMES When one has reached a certain age time seems to go very fast.

Then, also, one begins to understand the meaning of such terms as "the uncertainty of life," "changes," "loss of friends," "partings," "old times," etc., which ring sadly in the ears of grown-up folk.
After my first half at Eton, this universal experience became mine.
There was never a holiday time that I did not find some change; and, too often, a loss to meet my return.
One of the first and bitterest was the death of Rubens.
I had been most anxious to get home, and yet somehow, in less high spirits than usual, which made it feel not unnatural that my father's face should be so unusually grave when he came to meet me.
"I have some very bad news for you, my dear boy," he said.

"I fear, Regie, that poor Rubens is dying." "He've been a-dying all day, sir," said the groom, when we stood at last by Rubens' side.

"But he seems as if he couldn't go peaceable till you was come." He seemed to be gone.

The beautiful curls were limp and tangled.