tion of the utter solitude of this
place until a symbol of it--a compact and visible allegory of it
--furnished me the lacking lift three days ago. I was standing alone
on this veranda, in the late afternoon, mourning over the stillness,
the far-spreading, beautiful desolation, and the absence of visible
life, when a couple of shapely and graceful deer came sauntering
across the grounds and stopped, and at their leisure impudently
looked me over, as if they had an idea of buying me as bric-a-brac.
Then they seemed to conclude that they could do better for less
money elsewhere, and they sauntered indolently away and disappeared
among the trees. It sized up this solitude. It is so complete, so
perfect, that even the wild animals are satisfied with it. Those
dainty creatures were not in the least degree afraid of me.

This was no more than a mood--though real enough while it
lasted--somber, and in its way regal. It was the loneliness of a
king--King Lear. Yet he returned gladly enough to solitude after each
absence.

It was just before one of his departures that I made another set of
pictures of him, this time on the colonnaded veranda, where his figure
had become so familiar. He had determined to have his hair cut when
he reached New York, and I was anxious to get the pictures before this
happened. When the proofs came seven of them--he arranged them as a
series to illustrate what he called "The Progress of a Moral Purpose."
He ordered a number of sets of this series, and he wrote a legend on
each photograph, numbering them from 1 to 7, laying each set in a sheet
of letter-paper which formed a sort of wrapper, on which was written:

This series of q photographs registers with scientific precision,
stage by stage, the progress of a moral purpose through the
mind of the human race's Oldest Friend. S. L. C.

He added a personal inscription, and sent one to each of his more
intimate friends. One of the pictures amused him more than the others,
because during the exposure a little kitten, unnoticed, had walked into
it, and paused near his foot. He had never outgrown his love for cats,
and he had rented this kitten and two others for the summer from a
neighbor. He didn't wish to own them, he said, for then he would have
to leave them behind uncared for, so he preferred to rent them and pay
sufficiently to insure their subsequent care. These kittens he called