house. Mr Lahiri, seeing them step into the courtyard, ran up to them, and said, “I am sorry we cannot have the meeting here to-day. I made a mistake. I should have informed you of this before. Please excuse me.” On their asking him the reason he said, “Navakumar is just dead. His body lies in yonder room. Don’t go in, the sight will pain you.” They were all amazed to hear this from a father whose son was lying lifeless at that moment, but this pious man knew how to gain the victory over grief. Hearing of Indumati’s death I wrote a letter to him, blotted with many a tear, and expected that, in reply, he would give expression to thoughts of violent anguish. But I was wrong. The reply was thus worded:
“My dear Shibnath,—Thank you for your grief at our loss. Let us unite in thanking God for His having given Indu a deliverance from her sufferings.”
Another instance of his uncommon fortitude I mention here for the edification of the reader, that he may in this world of death and sorrow follow the footsteps of this great man. He had a friend at Bhagalpur to whom he regularly reported Indu’s condition when she lay on her death-bed at Krishnagar. One day his report was thus worded, “You will be glad to know that Indumati has no more to suffer. She is quite happy now.” The friend thought that by some unforeseen agency the girl had recovered. He was under this impression when the news of her death was brought him by some other person. Sages say that one should not shed tears for the departed; and Ramtanu did more than live up to this advice. He rejoiced in the sure conviction that the death of his dear departed children had made them partakers of the joys of heaven; and to lament their loss was in his opinion an
