Chapter 1

THE KEY TO GRIEF.

The moving finger writes, and, having writ,

Moves on; nor all your piety nor wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a line,

Nor all your tears wash out a word of it.

FITZGERALD.

THE KEY TO GRIEF.

The wild hawk to the wind-swept sky

The deer to the wholesome wold,
And the heart of a man to the heart of a maid,

As it was in the days of old.

KIPLING.