he most precious of all gifts--that gift which makes all other
gifts mean and poor--death. I have never wanted any released friend of
mine restored to life since I reached manhood. I felt in this way when
Susy passed away; and later my wife, and later Mr. Rogers. When Clara
met me at the station in New York and told me Mr. Rogers had
died suddenly that morning, my thought was, Oh, favorite of
fortune--fortunate all his long and lovely life--fortunate to his
latest moment! The reporters said there were tears of sorrow in my eyes.
True--but they were for ME, not for him. He had suffered no loss. All
the fortunes he had ever made before were poverty compared with this
one.

Why did I build this house, two years ago? To shelter this vast
emptiness? How foolish I was! But I shall stay in it. The spirits of
the dead hallow a house, for me. It was not so with other members of the
family. Susy died in the house we built in Hartford. Mrs. Clemens would
never enter it again. But it made the house dearer to me. I have entered
it once since, when it was tenantless and silent and forlorn, but to me
it was a holy place and beautiful. It seemed to me that the spirits of
the dead were all about me, and would speak to me and welcome me if
they could: Livy, and Susy, and George, and Henry Robinson, and Charles
Dudley Warner. How good and kind they were, and how lovable their lives!
In fancy I could see them all again, I could call the children back
and hear them romp again with George--that peerless black ex-slave and
children's idol who came one day--a flitting stranger--to wash windows,
and stayed eighteen years. Until he died. Clara and Jean would never
enter again the New York hotel which their mother had frequented in
earlier days. They could not bear it. But I shall stay in this house. It
is dearer to me tonight than ever it was before. Jean's spirit will make
it beautiful for me always. Her lonely and tragic death--but I will not
think of that now.

Jean's mother always devoted two or three weeks to Christmas shopping,
and was always physically exhausted when Christmas Eve came. Jean was
her very own child--she wore herself out present-hunting in New York
these latter days. Paine has just found on her desk a long list of
names--fifty, he thinks--people to whom she sent presents last night.
Apparently she forgot no one. And Katy found there a roll of bank-notes,
for the servants.

Her dog has been wandering about the grounds tod