my Princeton Professors, and
those of majestic Chalmers and the gnarled brow of Hugh Miller, the
Scotch geologist, the precious gifts of the author of "Rab and His
Friend." Near them is the bright face of dear Henry Drummond, looking
just as he did on that stormy evening when he came into my library a few
hours after his arrival from Scotland. I still recall his reply to me in
Edinburgh, when I cautioned him against permitting his scientific
studies to unspiritualize his activities. "Never you fear," said he, "I
am too busy in trying to save young men; and the only way to do that is
to lead them to the Lord Jesus Christ," In former years this room was
my beloved mother's "Chamber of Peace" that opens to the sun-rising. Her
pictured face looks down upon me now from the wall, and her Bible lies
beside me. In this room we gathered on the afternoon of September 14,
1887, around her dying bed. Her last words were: "Now kiss me good
night," and in an hour or two she fell into that sweet slumber which
Christ gives His beloved, at the ripe age of eighty-five. Her mental
powers and memory were unimpaired. On the monument which covers her
sleeping dust in Greenwood is engraved these words: "Return unto thy
rest, O my soul; for the Lord hath dealt bountifully with thee."

This room is also hallowed by another tenderly sacred association. Here
our beloved daughter, Louise Ledyard Cuyler, closed her beautiful life
on the last day of September, 1881. On her return from Narragansett
Pier, she was stricken with a mysterious typhoid fever, which often lays
its fatal touch on the most youthful and vigorous frame. She had
apparently passed the point of danger, and one Sabbath when I read to
her that one hundred and twenty-first Psalm, which records the watchful
love of Him who "never sleeps," our hearts were gladdened with the
prospect of a speedy recovery. Then came on a fatal relapse; and in the
early hour of dawn, while our breaking hearts were gathered around her
dying bed, she had "another morn than ours." Why that noble and gifted
daughter, who was the inseparable companion of her fond mother, and who
was developing into the sweet graces of young womanhood, was taken from
our clinging arms at the early age of twenty-two, God only knows. Many
another aching parental heart has doubtless knocked at the sealed door
of such a mystery, and heard the only response, "What I do thou knowest
not now, but thou shalt know hereafter." Upon the mo