, a sight as lovely as when, amid the
snow-storms of New Hampshire, a half century before, Charles Carleton
Coffin first called Sallie Farmer his wife.

Of Washington it has been said, "God made him childless that a nation
might call him father." In the home on that day were scores of nieces
and nephews, and children of several generations, from the babe in
arms, and the child with pinafore, to the stately dames and
long-bearded men, who, one and all, called the bride and groom "uncle
and aunt." From a ladies' orchestra, on the top floor, music filled
the house, the melody falling like a lark's song in upper air. In the
dining-room, turned for the nonce into a booth of evergreens, where
everything was sparkle and joy, new and old friends met to discuss,
over dainty cups and plates, both the happy moment and the delights of
long ago.

It was not only a very bright, but a noteworthy company that gathered
on that February afternoon and evening. Massachusetts was about to
lose by death her Governor, F. T. Greenhalge, as she had lost three
ex-Governors, all friends of Carleton, within the previous
twelvemonth, but there was present the handsome acting-Governor of the
Commonwealth, Roger Wolcott. Men eminent in political life, authors,
editors, preachers, business men, troops of lifelong friends, men and
women of eminence, honor, and usefulness, fellow Christians and
workers in wonderfully varied lines of activity, were present to share
in and add to the joy. Among the gifts, which seemed to come like
Jupiter's shower of gold upon Danae, were two that touched Carleton
very deeply. The Massachusetts Club, which has numbered in its body
many Senators, Governors, generals, diplomatists, lawyers, authors,
and merchants, whose names shine very high on the roll of national
fame, sent their fellow member an appropriate present. Instead of the
regular cup, vase, or urn, or anything that might suggest stress,
strain, or even victory, or even minister to personal vanity, the
Club, through its secretary, Mr. S. S. Blanchard, presented the master
of Alwington with a superb steel engraving, richly framed. It
represented the Master, sitting under the vine-roof trellis at the
home of Lazarus, in Bethlehem. "You knew just what I wanted,"
whispered the happy receiver.

During the evening, when the people of Shawmut Church were present, a
hundred or more strong, their former and latter chief servant being
with them, a silver casket, with t