"S. C. KEYES."

I packed the articles invoiced, and expressed the trunks to Mrs.
Lincoln at Chicago. I then demanded and received a receipt worded as
follows:

"Received, New York, March 4, 1868, of Mrs. Abraham Lincoln,
eight hundred and twenty dollars in full of all demands of
every kind up to date.

"S. C. KEYES."

This closed up the business, and with it I close the imperfect story of
my somewhat romantic life. I have experienced many ups and downs, but
still am stout of heart. The labor of a lifetime has brought me nothing
in a pecuniary way. I have worked hard, but fortune, fickle dame, has
not smiled upon me. If poverty did not weigh me down as it does, I would
not now be toiling by day with my needle, and writing by night, in the
plain little room on the fourth floor of No. 14 Carroll Place. And yet I
have learned to love the garret-like room. Here, with Mrs. Amelia
Lancaster as my only companion, I have spent many pleasant hours, as
well as sad ones, and every chair looks like an old friend. In memory I
have travelled through the shadows and the sunshine of the past, and the
bare walls are associated with the visions that have come to me from the
long-ago. As I love the children of memory, so I love every article in
this room, for each has become a part of memory itself. Though poor in
worldly goods, I am rich in friendships, and friends are a recompense
for all the woes of the darkest pages of life. For sweet friendship's
sake, I can bear more burdens than I have borne.

The letters appended from Mrs. Lincoln to myself throw a flood of light
upon the history of the "old clothes" speculation in New York.

APPENDIX

LETTERS FROM MRS. LINCOLN TO MRS. KECKLEY.

"CHICAGO, Sunday Morning, Oct. 6.

"MY DEAR LIZZIE:--I am writing this morning with a broken heart after a
sleepless night of great mental suffering. R. came up last evening like
a maniac, and almost threatening his life, looking like death, because
the letters of the _World_ were published in yesterday's paper. I could
not refrain from weeping when I saw him so miserable. But yet, my dear
good Lizzie, was it not to protect myself and help others--and was not
my motive and action of the purest kind? Pray for me that this cup of
affliction may pass from me, or be sanctified to me. I weep whilst I am
writing. * * * * I pray for death this morning. Only my darling Taddie
prevents my taking my life. I shall have to end