ition of legs.
Still they had come, and New York had them.

We dined at Niblo's, at Castle Garden. We drove about the city. We went
out to see Trenton Falls where Jenny Lind had been taken as part of her
entertainment, and where she had sung in the woods and been answered by
the birds.

I began to notice that Dorothy was unusually quiet. She complained of
fatigue, of pain. We had done too much perhaps. One morning she could
not arise. Abigail and Aldington were returning to Chicago. We had
expected to go with them. But Dorothy could not travel now--she could
not stand that terrible journey of boats and cars, of changes and
delays. So we bade adieu to our friends.

Dorothy did not rally, as I had expected. She grew weaker day by day.
She became gravely ill. In the midst of the extra labor thrown upon
Mammy, she too was compelled to take to her bed. I was forced to look
about for servants, finding two Irish girls at last. Then quite suddenly
Mammy died. She was very old. And thus we were cut off from all our
past, Nashville, the old days. And I stayed almost constantly by
Dorothy's side, trying to bring back her strength. It entered my mind at
times that after all I was not as tender a husband to Dorothy as I
should have been. I was with her a good deal, to be sure. At the same
time, I was much preoccupied. She did not like politics, and could not
share my interest in that direction. The condition of the country really
distressed her. She had seen slavery in its benign aspect, and she was
impatient with any criticism of the institution.

It was months before Dorothy sat up and began to walk again. I could see
that she was frailer than before and might never be strong again. Our
boy Reverdy was not robust. And the winter was coming on. At the same
time Dorothy did not wish to return to Washington. She wanted to hear no
more of politics. I had to select her books for her, something that
soothed her, led her into dreams. _Uncle Tom's Cabin_ was now appearing
in serial form. I was reading it with great amusement. But I dared not
show it to Dorothy. I had heard Beecher and knew his sentimental
attitude. This book had for me the same quality. Yet it helped me to
pass many hours while watching by Dorothy's side. Somehow I felt that it
would produce a storm akin to the religious psychology which was
sweeping the country. Critics were already noting its moral effect. Mrs.
Stowe was hailed by Sumner as a "Christian genius," a J