minded and, in the business of watching the widow's fingers touch
the keys, played flat.

Long years before, he had liked and admired Becca, gazed fondly at Sukey,
and finally loved Belinda. He did not tell her so, but he told John Page,
and vowed that if he did not wed Belinda he would go through life solitary
and alone. In a few months Belinda married that detested being--another.
Then it was he again swore to his friend Page he would be true to her
memory, even though she had dissembled. But now he saw that the widow
Skelton had intellect, while Belinda had been but clever; the widow had
soul, while Belinda had nothing but form. Jefferson's experience seems to
settle that mooted question, "Can a man love two women at the same time?"
Unlike Martha Custis, this Martha was won only after a protracted wooing,
with many skirmishes and occasional misunderstandings and explanations,
and sweet makings-up that were surely worth a quarrel.

Then they were married at "The Forest," and rode away through the woods to
Monticello. Jefferson was twenty-seven, and although it may not be proper
to question closely as to the age of the widow, yet the bride, we have
reason to believe, was about the age of her husband.

It was a most happy mating--all their quarreling had been done before
marriage. The fine intellect and high spirit of Jefferson found their
mate. She was his comrade and helpmeet as well as his wife. He could read
his favorite Ossian aloud to her, and when he tired she would read to him;
and all his plans and ambitions and hopes were hers. In laying out the
grounds and beautifying that home on Monticello mountain, she took much
more than a passive interest. It was "Our Home," and to make it a home in
very sooth for her beloved husband was her highest ambition. She knew the
greatness of her mate, and all the dreams she had for his advancement were
to come true. With her, ideality was to become reality. But she was to see
it only in part.

Yet she had seen her husband re-elected to the Virginia Legislature; sent
as a member to the Colonial Congress at Philadelphia, there to write the
best known of all American literary productions; from their mountain home
she had seen British troops march into Charlottesville, four miles away,
and then, with household treasure, had fled, knowing that beautiful
Monticello would be devastated by the enemy's ruthless tread. She had
known Washington, and had visited his lonely wife there at