ry of the man she loved.

She was a washerwoman.

I uncover in her presence, and stand with bowed head in admiration of
the woman who gave her life for liberty and love, and who chose a life
of honest toil rather than accept charity or all that selfishness and
soft luxury had to offer. She was a washerwoman, but she was more--she
was a Woman.

Let Carlyle have the credit of using the word "washerwoman" as a term of
contempt, as though to do laundry-work were not quite as necessary as to
produce literature.

The sister and the widow wrote his life, republished very much that he
had written, and lived but to keep alive the name and fame of Jean Paul
Marat, whose sole crime seemed to be that he was a sincere and honest
man, and was, throughout his life--often unwisely--the People's Friend.

ROBERT INGERSOLL

Love is the only bow on life's dark cloud. It is the morning and
the evening star. It shines upon the babe, and sheds its radiance
on the quiet tomb. It is the Mother of Art, inspirer of poet,
patriot and philosopher. It is the air and light to tired
souls--builder of every home, kindler of every fire on every
hearth. It was the first to dream of immortality. It fills the
world with melody--for music is the voice of love. Love is the
magician, the enchanter that changes worthless things to joy, and
makes right-royal kings and queens of common clay. It is the
perfume of that wondrous flower, the heart, and without that sacred
passion, that divine swoon, we are less than beasts; but with it,
earth is heaven and we are gods.

--_Robert G. Ingersoll_

[Illustration: ROBERT G. INGERSOLL]

He was three years old, was Robert Ingersoll. There was a baby boy one
year old, Ebon by name; then there were John, five years, and two elder
sisters.

Little Robert wore a red linsey-woolsey dress, and was a restless,
active youngster with a big head, a round face and a pug-nose. No one
ever asked. "What is it?"--there was "boy" written large in every baby
action and every feature from chubby bare feet to the two crowns of his
close-cropped tow-head.

It was a morning in January, and the snow lay smooth and white over all
those York State hills. The winter sun sent long gleams of light through
the frost-covered panes upon which the children were trying to draw
pictures. Visitors began to arrive--visitors in