have
liked this one from the beginning, because he belonged to Jean, and
because he never barks except when there is occasion--which is not
oftener than twice a week.

In my wanderings I visited Jean's parlor. On a shelf I found a pile of
my books, and I knew what it meant. She was waiting for me to come home
from Bermuda and autograph them, then she would send them away. If I
only knew whom she intended them for! But I shall never know. I will
keep them. Her hand has touched them--it is an accolade--they are noble,
now.

And in a closet she had hidden a surprise for me--a thing I have often
wished I owned: a noble big globe. I couldn't see it for the tears.
She will never know the pride I take in it, and the pleasure. Today the
mails are full of loving remembrances for her: full of those old, old
kind words she loved so well, "Merry Christmas to Jean!" If she could
only have lived one day longer!

At last she ran out of money, and would not use mine. So she sent to
one of those New York homes for poor girls all the clothes she could
spare--and more, most likely.

CHRISTMAS NIGHT.--This afternoon they took her away from her room. As
soon as I might, I went down to the library, and there she lay, in her
coffin, dressed in exactly the same clothes she wore when she stood at
the other end of the same room on the 6th of October last, as Clara's
chief bridesmaid. Her face was radiant with happy excitement then; it
was the same face now, with the dignity of death and the peace of God
upon it.

They told me the first mourner to come was the dog. He came uninvited,
and stood up on his hind legs and rested his fore paws upon the trestle,
and took a last long look at the face that was so dear to him, then went
his way as silently as he had come. HE KNOWS.

At mid-afternoon it began to snow. The pity of it--that Jean could not
see it! She so loved the snow.

The snow continued to fall. At six o'clock the hearse drew up to the
door to bear away its pathetic burden. As they lifted the casket, Paine
began playing on the orchestrelle Schubert's "Impromptu," which was
Jean's favorite. Then he played the Intermezzo; that was for Susy;
then he played the Largo; that was for their mother. He did this at my
request. Elsewhere in my Autobiography I have told how the Intermezzo
and the Largo came to be associated in my heart with Susy and Livy in
their last hours in this life.

From my windows I saw the hearse and the carriages wi