ting
confidence summoning Him to take command in time of war, each surprised
when He goes over to the enemy, but by habit able to excuse it and
resume compliments--in a word, the whole human race content, always
content, persistently content, indestructibly content, happy, thankful,
proud, NO MATTER WHAT ITS RELIGION IS, NOR WHETHER ITS MASTER BE TIGER
OR HOUSE-CAT. Am I stating facts? You know I am. Is the human race
cheerful? You know it is. Considering what it can stand, and be happy,
you do me too much honor when you think that _I_ can place before it
a system of plain cold facts that can take the cheerfulness out of it.
Nothing can do that. Everything has been tried. Without success. I beg
you not to be troubled.

THE DEATH OF JEAN

The death of Jean Clemens occurred early in the morning of December 24,
1909. Mr. Clemens was in great stress of mind when I first saw him, but
a few hours later I found him writing steadily.

"I am setting it down," he said, "everything. It is a relief to me to
write it. It furnishes me an excuse for thinking." At intervals during
that day and the next I looked in, and usually found him writing. Then
on the evening of the 26th, when he knew that Jean had been laid to rest
in Elmira, he came to my room with the manuscript in his hand.

"I have finished it," he said; "read it. I can form no opinion of it
myself. If you think it worthy, some day--at the proper time--it can end
my autobiography. It is the final chapter."

Four months later--almost to the day--(April 21st) he was with Jean.

Albert Bigelow Paine.

Stormfield, Christmas Eve, 11 A.M., 1909.

JEAN IS DEAD!

Has any one ever tried to put upon paper all the little happenings
connected with a dear one--happenings of the twenty-four hours preceding
the sudden and unexpected death of that dear one? Would a book contain
them? Would two books contain them? I think not. They pour into the mind
in a flood. They are little things that have been always happening every
day, and were always so unimportant and easily forgettable before--but
now! Now, how different! how precious they are, now dear, how
unforgettable, how pathetic, how sacred, how clothed with dignity!

Last night Jean, all flushed with splendid health, and I the same, from
the wholesome effects of my Bermuda holiday, strolled hand in hand from
the dinner-table and sat down in the library and chatted, and planned,
and discussed, cheerily and happil