ned to
the manuscript of _Hesper_ and succeeded in writing at least a thousand
words each day; on fortunate mornings I was able to turn off a full
chapter.

It was a gay and satisfying season. We met all our old friends and made
many new ones, finding ourselves more and more at home in the city. We
rode to grand receptions in the street cars--as usual--and while we ate
our luncheons at inexpensive cafes, we often dined with our more
prosperous fellow-craftsmen. In spite of many interruptions I managed to
complete my novel. By the first of March _Hesper_ was ready for the
printer and I turned it over to Duneka.

On Zulime's birthday as I was putting the last chapter in final shape, I
received a letter from father which said, "I am coming East. Meet me in
Washington on the 21st." To this request there was but one answer: "I'll
be there."

It was the first time that the old pioneer had taken "the back trail"
since leaving Boston, nearly fifty years before, and I rejoiced in his
decision. The thought of leading him into the halls of Congress and
pointing out for him the orators whose doings had been so long his chief
concern, was pleasureable to me. From my earliest childhood I had heard
him comment on the weekly record of Congressional debates. He loved
oratory. He was a hero-worshiper. With him the Capitol meant Lincoln and
Grant and Blaine and Sherman. It was not a city, it was a shrine.

When he stepped from the train in Washington the following week, I was
there to meet him, and for several days I led him from splendor to
splendor. With me he saw Mount Vernon, the White House, Congress, the
library, and his patriotism intensified as the glories of his country's
capital unrolled before his eyes. He said little, only looked, and when
he had harvested as much of Washington as he could carry I took him to
Philadelphia, in order that he might breathe the air of Continental Hall
and gaze upon its sacred Liberty Bell. His patriotism had few
reservations. All these relics were of high solemnity to him.

At last as a climax we approached New York, whose glittering bays,
innumerable ships and monstrous buildings awed him and saddened him. It
was a picture at once incredible and familiar, resembling illustrations
he had seen in the magazines, only mightier more magnificent than he had
imagined any of it to be. It overwhelmed him, wearied him, disheartened
him, and so it came about that the quiet dinners he took with me at my