her neck, kissed her lips, laughed in her eyes, and
twined their fingers in her hair, what a struggle must have been taking
place in her soul. As the pleading, upturned faces of her babies begged
her not to leave them, her very heart-strings must have been rent with
agony. Well may the voice quiver or the hand tremble that attempts to
portray the anguish of this mother during that farewell interview. From
the very first moment, her resolution to return to her husband remained
unshaken. The members of the relief party entreated her to go with her,
children and save her own life. They urged that there could only be a
few hours of life left in George Donner. This was so true that she once
ventured the request that they remain until she could return to Alder
Creek, and see if he were yet alive. The gathering storm-clouds, which
had hovered over the summit for days, compelled them to refuse this
request. An hour's delay might be fatal to all.

George Donner knew that he was dying, and had frequently urged his wife
to leave him, cross the mountains, and take care of her children. As
she held her darlings in her arms, it required no prophetic vision to
disclose pictures of sadness, of lonely childhood, of longing girlhood,
of pillows wet with tears, if these three little waifs were left to
wander friendless in California. She never expressed a belief that she
would see that land of promise beyond the Sierra. Often had her calm,
earnest voice told them of the future which awaited them, and so far as
possible had she prepared them to meet that future without the counsel
or sympathy of father or mother.

The night-shadows, creeping through the shivering pines, warned her of
the long, dreary way over which her tired feet must pass ere she
reached her dying husband's side. She is said to have appeared strangely
composed. The struggle was silent. The poor, bleeding heart brought not
a single moan to the lips. It was a choice between life, hope, and her
clinging babes, or a lonely vigil by a dying husband, and an unknown,
shroudless death in the wintry mountains. Her husband was sixty-three;
he was well stricken in years, and his life was fast ebbing away. If she
returned through the frosty night-winds, over the crisp, freezing
snow, she would travel fourteen miles that day. The strong, healthy men
composing the relief parties frequently could travel but five or six
miles in a day. If she made the journey, and found her husband was d