pirits. Some
of the young people had suggested dancing, but Mr. Lincoln met the
suggestion with an emphatic veto. The brilliance of the scene could not
dispel the sadness that rested upon the face of Mrs. Lincoln. During the
evening she came upstairs several times, and stood by the bedside of the
suffering boy. She loved him with a mother's heart, and her anxiety was
great. The night passed slowly; morning came, and Willie was worse. He
lingered a few days, and died. God called the beautiful spirit home, and
the house of joy was turned into the house of mourning. I was worn out
with watching, and was not in the room when Willie died, but was
immediately sent for. I assisted in washing him and dressing him, and
then laid him on the bed, when Mr. Lincoln came in. I never saw a man so
bowed down with grief. He came to the bed, lifted the cover from the
face of his child, gazed at it long and earnestly, murmuring, "My poor
boy, he was too good for this earth. God has called him home. I know
that he is much better off in heaven, but then we loved him so. It is
hard, hard to have him die!"

Great sobs choked his utterance. He buried his head in his hands, and
his tall frame was convulsed with emotion. I stood at the foot of the
bed, my eyes full of tears, looking at the man in silent, awe-stricken
wonder. His grief unnerved him, and made him a weak, passive child. I
did not dream that his rugged nature could be so moved. I shall never
forget those solemn moments--genius and greatness weeping over love's
idol lost. There is a grandeur as well as a simplicity about the picture
that will never fade. With me it is immortal--I really believe that I
shall carry it with me across the dark, mysterious river of death.

Mrs. Lincoln's grief was inconsolable. The pale face of her dead boy
threw her into convulsions. Around him love's tendrils had been twined,
and now that he was dressed for the tomb, it was like tearing the
tendrils out of the heart by their roots. Willie, she often said, if
spared by Providence, would be the hope and stay of her old age. But
Providence had not spared him. The light faded from his eyes, and the
death-dew had gathered on his brow.

In one of her paroxysms of grief the President kindly bent over his
wife, took her by the arm, and gently led her to the window. With a
stately, solemn gesture, he pointed to the lunatic asylum.

"Mother, do you see that large white building on the hill yonder? Try
and con