ed along that same path to the University, we planned
to have morning glories like those--the odor came to meet you yards
away--growing along the path to the little home we would at last settle
down in when we were old. We used always to remark pictures in the
newspapers, of So-and-so on their "golden anniversary," and would plan
about our own "golden wedding-day"--old age together always seemed so
good to think about. There was a time when we used to plan to live in a
lighthouse, way out on some point, when we got old. It made a strong
appeal, it really did. We planned many ways of growing old--not that we
talked of it often, perhaps twice a year, but always, always it was, of
course, _together_. Strange, that neither of us ever dreamed one would
grow old without the other.

And yet, too, there is the other side. I found a letter written during
our first summer back in Berkeley, just after we had said good-bye at
the station when Carl left for Chicago. Among other things he wrote: "It
just makes me feel bad to see other folks living put-in lives, when we
two (four) have loved through Harvard and Europe and it has only
commenced, and no one is loving so hard or living so happily. . . . I am
most willing to die now (if you die with me), for we have lived one
complete life of joy already." And then he added--if only the adding of
it could have made it come true: "But we have fifty years yet of love."

Oh, it was so true that we packed into ten years the happiness that
could normally be considered to last a lifetime--a long lifetime.
Sometimes it seems almost as if we must have guessed it was to end so
soon, and lived so as to crowd in all the joy we could while our time
together was given us. I say so often that I stand right now the richest
woman in the world--why talk of sympathy? I have our three precious,
marvelously healthy children, I have perfect health myself, I have all
and more than I can handle of big ambitious maturing plans, with a
chance to see them carried out, I have enough to live on, and, greatest
of all, fifteen years of perfect memories--And yet, to hear a snatch of
a tune and know that the last time you heard it you were
together--perhaps it was the very music they played as you left the
theatre arm-in-arm that last night; to put on a dress you have not worn
for some time and remember that, when you last had it on, it was the
night you went, just the two of you, to Blanc's for dinner; to meet
unexpec