My Grandfather's Illness And Death

( Originally Published 1921 )

EARLY that autumn we all moved up to my grandparents' New York house. My grandfather seemed to be feeling quite unwell. Either his hip or throat or headaches were to blame; and because of this a new arrangement of the second-floor rooms occurred, and an office was installed up there on the lines of the one at Elberon, except that a second big desk was added, where my father was permanently established. The office was in the smaller of the two front rooms. The larger front room was made my grandfather's bedroom, instead of grandmama's, as it had been, while she moved into the back room, with folding doors open between. The small room off her bedroom was arranged as a sitting-room for her.

I remember no parties that winter. At first, every morning early, my grandfather went down-town to have his throat treated; then he returned and went to work on the book, dictating and writing. Late afternoon found him always for two or three hours in grandmama's sitting-room, listening to her and those who surrounded her, all talking gaily. My mother was looking very pretty, feeling well, and was always well surrounded. Later in the winter my Aunt Nelly came from England and stayed in the house. Many great men passed hours in that upstairs sitting-room, came in the afternoon and were kept over for the family dinner, with old-fashioned informal hospitality. Sometimes several of these would break away from the group round the fire and go off to the office to discuss some point on which they differed, perhaps, as to the hour of a troop movement or something else concerning some chapter of the book.

General Sherman was a constant guest. He talked a lot, was tall and vital, with a distinguished face, his head well poised, and he had a charming, confiding manner. He never forgot he had given my mother her diploma when she graduated at Georgetown Convent, or that she had been head of her class there. His special allegiance went to her always in a pretty compliment, but he was delightful to all, and a great resource to grandmama, with whom he chummed admirably, whether in her serious or lighter moods. Probably he read what an intense anxiety was beginning to pierce the calm surface of the family circle, and he came and came again. So did others, with the same feeling of bringing a distraction or a comfort to this vague trouble. Seeing grand-mama's worry over my grandfather's silence, which she attributed to pain, I remember that one day when her husband having left the room she mentioned this, General Sherman, walking up and down, said to her: "But the general was always silent, Mrs. Grant. Even at the worst times of strain, during the war, I used to go to see him at his headquarters, and he would sit perfectly still, like he did here to-day. I just walked up and down and swore then; and I'm sure it did your husband lots of good, ma'am, and relieved his mind to have me do it for him." Grandmama laughed and was consoled. General "Black Jack" Logan came often to sit, too; silent at first sometimes, then breaking into hot eloquence over some army memory, some occasion where my grand-father's genius had shone.

As the winter advanced, General Buckner, from whom my grandfather had captured Fort Donelson in 1862, and several other opponents of old war days, took the trouble to show their sympathy by joining the group in grand-mama's sitting-room on one occasion or another, for a talk with their conqueror.

My babyhood acquaintance, General Sheridan, reappeared on the scene, stouter and ruddier than I recalled him in the old days, and with rather whiter hair. He had kept his charm of voice and smile, and was intense always in his attitude of devotion. There were others with army titles, but my memory does not retain their names. There were many civilians, too. Handsomest of these was Senator Roscoe Conkling—tall, imposing, with fine gray curls, grizzled beard, and his head thrown well back. He was so distinguished-looking as to hold his companions somewhat in awe. I do not remember what he said—did not understand it very well—but when he talked every one listened, and seemed greatly to enjoy it, and he often talked.

One frequent visitor frightened me dreadfully—Mark Twain, with his shaggy mane of long white hair, waving or carelessly tossed about his low brow, and his protruding eyebrows, which almost hid the deep-set eyes shining beneath them. He seemed long and rather lanky, perhaps because I was still quite small, and he had a vague way of strolling into a room and moving about without seeming to aim for any special spot. Seated, he leaned 'way back, with crossed legs, and his chin thrown up a little; so he looked at one as from a height, his lids half lowered. He shook hands, always rather crushing my small, pudgy paw, and he would eye me with his whimsical expression, probably not even thinking of me as he did so. Then he would slowly drawl out some re-mark, in a curious, rather bored, monotone voice. Somehow, though I did not dare say it, I got the idea he was a crazy man, and I would draw close to one or another of the grown-ups when he was around. I think I never would have had the courage to be in. the same room with Mark Twain alone. I remember once the following summer at Mount McGregor he came upon me in the garden where I was playing, and as he spoke to me I turned, saw him, and fled screaming to the cottage-door, without replying. Since then I have frequently regretted, in reading his great contributions to American literature, that I had behaved so stupidly; for it was a wonderful chance I lost of hearing the best story-teller of our generation tell me a tale, to be repeated with pride to my own child or grandchild later.

A quaint figure was that of Senor Roméro, the Mexican minister to the United States—a tiny thin body with a rather large bald head, a long nose, black eyes, and very small hands and feet. He suffered from dyspepsia, and was very sallow-skinned. His quaint type and the deep gray shadows in his face interested me. He generally said almost nothing, but would draw up a small chair in a modest corner, and would sit watching my grandfather for hours with a face full of sad devotion. Senator Leland Stanford came and talked of things in California, opening up vistas like fairy-tales, with brilliant glimpses of Far Western life, where sun, mountains, great trees, flowers, fruit, and gold disputed first place in the ideas he gave me.

Still others came to my grandparents' house in those days, but somehow these are the only figures which stand out marked in my child's memory as I look back over thirty-five years. One name, that of Jefferson Davis, I remember hearing of as having given my grandfather great pleasure by coming, or by a message sent.

Of the family, I remember my mother was excessively slender and pretty, and my father had grown a beard and seemed older; also, he seemed always very busy. Even when my grandfather was free to come and sit a while, my father generally came in with him, stayed a little, and then went quietly back to the office, where the secretary and also General Badeau were deep in papers.

Somehow—without my child's memory establishing a date, however—there was soon a change in my grand-father and in the family life around him. He was no longer going down-town, or going out at all, in fact; and a good deal of the time he was in a dressing-gown and wore a scarf round his neck, thrown back loosely. Also he came less and less to the sitting-room, and never sat at his desk in the office any more. A big, soft leather armchair appeared in his bedroom, with a pillow in it, and it was said before me that he could not sleep lying down, so that he spent his nights in that great chair sitting upright. He often wore a soft knitted cap when his head ached; and he had, on a small table by him, a bottle or two, a cup of water and a little empty dish, together with a small pad and a well-sharpened pencil.

He did not at all stop work, but always wrote for the usual number of hours each day. Sometimes he would walk about the room and even through the corridor to the sitting-room, generally with his hand on my father's arm. He was quite silent, usually, and wrote on the small pad anything he wanted to say. Now and then, when in the other rooms or without this means of conveying his thought, in a strained voice he would say with effort a word or two; but he enjoyed the family group and would listen with vivid eyes as, for his benefit, added color was infused into the conversation.

I still enjoyed my privileges. If I was in the sitting-room my little chair was drawn close to my grandfather's and he would stroke my hair or cheek or hold my hand a little while. I remember how beautiful his hands were-large, classic, with long, capable fingers and perfect nails, to which Nature had left nothing for the manicure to do. The hands looked strong, and so did the wonderful face with its quiet, firm expression of mouth and deep eyes, calm in spite of his constant pain. When he would go off from the sitting-room some one of the remaining circle always asked how he was, and another would reply sadly: "No better."

Once a stranger, whom I do not recall by name, said something about morphine. "He would not take it," came the reply. "The only thing he is willing to try is now and again to have a light exterior application of cocaine painted over the sore itself. It is especially hard, because he is forced now to write every scrap of his memoirs in person; no voice—he cannot dictate."

Then my mother told of the life in the two front rooms. It seems my father spent twenty-three out of twenty-four hours there, sleeping on a sofa in the office, always dressed and ready to spring to his father's side if the latter woke at night and wanted to write. My grandfather evidently had to work during what hours he could, as the pain subsided, permitting him to do so by chance; and whenever such a period came my father was there, gentle and smiling, to help look up a date or to verify a statement, hand a pillow, or do anything else he could. To sympathize with his father was the son's one desire, and my mother said it was unhealthy for my father to be awake and working thus day after day, keeping himself alive with black coffee; but she could do nothing with him, she added, and he only answered her protests by absolutely declaring he meant to go on aiding his father to the end.

I was allowed to enter the sick-room and stand about at times. Once I wandered in and stood in a corner watching, and it appeared to me my father was as strong and as gentle as any nurse, and that my grandfather seemed to feel confidence and depend on his big son.

The doctors came to the patient now, and I stood by once and saw how they examined his throat and painted it.

The winter wore on and my grandfather grew worse steadily. He remained constantly in his room. With strict orders given me to make no noise, not even to talk, and to come right out again, occasionally I was allowed in. One noticed a great change; the face was pale and drawn and the fine hands were very thin. When he was not writing they lay open on the arms f his chair, extremely still; or else with a slow, quiet movement he would open and close his hands, rubbing the thumb over the closed fingers backward and forward. It was never a jerky motion, but one as if he were thinking, much as a well man walks quietly up and down while he thinks. Never did any one mention an impatient word or gesture on his part, and his two doctors—one of whom, Doctor Shrady, I liked very much—were always saying it was wonderful how he stood the days of agony and the long sleepless nights. He would never take anything to give him respite, as they had often begged him to do. Also, every one spoke of the wonderful work he was still doing, and of his chapters, which were piling up, and how his strength held out.

Two or three times there were sinking spells, and a frightened family gathered about him, fearing the end; but he rallied, and even occasionally seemed for a few days to show an appreciable improvement. I remember on the 27th of April there was a birthday dinner for him; all the family were gathered and a few friends besides. I was allowed to sit up for the grown-ups' meal, and to have some of their ice-cream—a rare treat which impressed me more than did the few guests, among whom I seem to recall the faces of General Sherman and Mark Twain again, with my grandmother's delight that some unexpected remark of the latter had created a general laugh in which my grandfather had joined. I may be confusing this with another dinner earlier that season, however, as there were two or three such.

Again, an incident which stands out in my memory is that one evening before' dinner a frightful series of howls was heard in the hall outside grandmama's door. She, who always asserted we children were much too sup-pressed by our parents and nurses, rushed out from her room in a dressing-gown, my mother appearing in the same array on the staircase above, while even my grand-father, cane in hand, opened his door, and my father came from the office, having dropped his work in haste at the evident agony in his small son's voice. I sat on the steps, since, when the racket began, we were following our nurse up to our rooms from our own early dinner. With the crowd assembled and with grandmama imploringly begging the three-year-old to dry his tears and con-fide his trouble to her, young Ulysses straightened out his wrinkled face, opened his eyes, and, looking straight at her, answered: "Want an appul!"

It seemed grandma had secretly instructed him to "shout and make a noise" when he wanted anything, so she proceeded to make good by sending for the apple; but my mother's indignation and humiliation were very great ! My grandfather had watched the scene with delight, and referred to it several times, saying, "That boy knows how to manage women"; and finally, "I'm afraid Ida will have to spank that youngster of hers " ; but he liked both the vigor and the wit of the sturdy little grandson who bore his name, and my father was not displeased with anything which brought a ray of light to the invalid's tired eyes.

Toward spring all sorts of things which interested us children began to happen outside the house. An army of reporters camped on our sidewalk, watching the windows of the second-floor front. Incidentally, they questioned every one who came out of the front door, and we children received a large share of attention whenever we appeared bound for our daily walks. We were mentioned frequently in the papers, and my mother disliked this, and gave us strict instructions not to talk to the reporters as we went by them. One day when she had been out for luncheon and during the whole afternoon, and had missed a playroom riot of which Nurse Louise told her, she sent for us, and looking at my brother, she said with sorrow in her voice: "I hear you have been dreadfully naughty to-day. Now isn't that terrible ? " Ignoring the latter question, the culprit replied, with gay interest: "Now, how did you hear that, mama ? In the newspapers ? "—and brought down the house.

There was a great procession that spring, too, I remember—a beautiful parade, which marched up past our house to salute the old commander. He stood in the bay window of his sick-room, looking down on the veterans he had commanded long ago, with their following of younger men and boys; and as they went by, in spite of military discipline, all eyes turned upward, and they gazed at the fine strength of that face, still fighting and unconquered. From two windows over his we children enjoyed the fine sight, feeling the parade was all for our benefit and pleasure, understanding nothing of the tragedy of this last review.

Partly unconscious of the full significance of the drama in our home, we spent a happy winter, with lessons, walks, and games following one another in monotonous succession. Toward the end of spring we were scarcely ever allowed in the sick-room, and, if at all, my father would carry little Ulysses in his arms, saying, "Sh ! "—then would take me in for a moment, leading me by the hand gently, and would stand with me a few seconds by the side of the great chair. My grandfather's head was bent usually and he appeared very ill, but always there was a look and a smile in my direction; and then, "Come, sweetheart," my father would whisper, "dear grandpapa is tired now." He would lead me back to the lighted hall. But I heard them all talk of how the book was still progressing, how each day at the hours of least suffering some pages were added to it, and one person would say, "The book is killing him," and another would reply : "No, the book is keeping him alive; without it he would already be dead."

Then came talk of summer plans. The doctors thought Oberon too damp and too low, and real mountains too far, with air too rarefied. Some one suggested Mount McGregor, in the foot-hills of the Adirondacks—accessible, dry, invigorating, cool, all that was wanted—a small hotel where one took one's meals was there, it seemed, with a wee cottage, just large enough to hold the family; woods of oak and pine ; a great, sweeping view out over the valley far away. The question was decided; moving the invalid frightened every one, but the journey came off all right.

My grandfather, with doctors and nurse, made one group; and my father, invariably at his side and in charge, was always able to understand his parent's least gesture or see what was needed quicker and better than others ; grandmama, with Aunt Nelly and my mother, formed another group under the leadership of my uncle, U. S. Grant; then we children followed, with our French Louise; while, finally, various servants with baggage and wraps made a cavalcade which crowded the special car offered our party by the railroad. An all-day trip it was. I think we arrived in time for a light supper, and were put at once to bed; and we slept with light hearts, for in telling us good night some one had said: "Isn't it nice, dear grandpapa has stood the trip so well ? And the doctor says he will soon be all right in this fine air."

It seemed really true. The air was cool and clear, while our tiny cottage was most conveniently arranged for the invalid's comfort. On the ground floor there was a little room—supposedly a dining-room-with a smaller parlor off it; then a large room called the office, and a pleasant, sunny, quiet, corner room, with a cot for the attendant, and two big chairs, like those in New York; or perhaps the same ones transported. These two rooms opened one into the other, and had their own door out to the broad porch, where the invalid could sit or be wheeled about or even walk a little, sure of an even surface for his feet.

For a time the effect of the change and air was wonderful, though the pain and difficulty in swallowing were as before, of course. An augmentation of strength came within a day or two, and my grandfather was able to be out a great deal, to wear his clothes, and stand the fatigue of dressing and undressing; he again took a large part in the family's life, which was arranged around him so he should have as much company and talk as would amuse and distract him. He was wheeled down to the summer-house on the cliff frequently, and looked contentedly out over the great valley spread beyond. If I was playing in the garden when he started I was called; and, delighted to be with him, feeling very maternal and important, I trotted alongside the wheeled chair, chattering incessantly, and now or then tucking in the corner of his scarf or lap-robe. I loved that view myself, and always felt the silent man was in sympathy, for when I would exclaim my pleasure at its splendor and turn to him with a "Don't you like it, too, grandpapa ?" he would nod, and smile with his eyes, quite in the old way ; and I forgot, childlike, how ill he really was.

Through June and part of July we lived like this, and crowds came and looked and went away. On Sunday vast concourses of people, respectful and quiet, arrived by train on the mountain top, gazed at the view and wandered round the cottage, in the hope of catching a glimpse of "the general." Children were brought, to be held up to look, and shrubs were broken and carried off, with any other odds and ends within reach, to be kept as souvenirs.

So many came and stood about that one day a group of soldiers appeared on the scene and set up a tent or two, proceeding to establish sentinels, who marched up and down a few feet beyond the balcony and permitted no one without a pass or a real mission to come beyond their chosen line. We children grew very intimate with vague, friendly people in these multitudes, and we had a great many compliments and questions put to us. No doubt we were very indiscreet, though I do not remember any trouble coming from it.

We led an outdoor life, and as we took our meals with Nurse Louise over at the hotel, we saw very little of the grown-ups in the family circle, who spent their time sitting near my grandfather or with his doctors in consultation. We enjoyed ourselves immensely. There were rocks and big trees; a small, still, shimmering lake behind the cottage; and out in front a tiny garden, with beyond it an open space and the few trees which were grouped about the summer-house, whence was the lookout. Enough for a children's paradise this was, and I loved it all, having been used only till then to the open sea, sky, sand, and lawns at Elberon. These surroundings seemed mysterious, with something of fairy or of goblin charm about them. I liked the sunlight coming through high oaks with their moving leaves; and I spent much leisure looking up into them as they whispered among them-selves. It is the first time I remember feeling any appreciation of Nature.

One day there was a thunder-storm, so sudden and violent that it frightened us children very much as we undressed. The cottage was struck by lightning, which ran down a defective lightning-rod and branched off from it through the window of our nursery. Louise sat at the window, and was for a moment transfixed by the shock, though, as it passed, the only real harm done was to her apron, which bore traces of burning. I saw a line or ball of flame pass and go to an upper corner of the room, and there disappear. It went by my little brother, who was standing in his crib and who fell over backward with a squeal, saying some one had hurt his face. We were easily consoled, though, for our small troubles, and liked being the centre of attention and telling our story as often as chance offered an audience, but the distressing thing was that though the damage in our room consisted of a scorched apron and a small hole in the wall, outside the house one of the sentinels had been thrown down and killed. His dramatic end was for a long time a deep sorrow to us children, for we had known him well and were growing fond of him.

I became conscious one day that the grown-ups on the balcony near which I was playing were worried. Grand-mama was saying something in an anxious voice, Aunt Nelly was silent, looking far away, and my mother was arguing against grandmama in her most contagiously cheerful tone—the tone a child recognizes as the one used to persuade one that having a tooth pulled or an arm vaccinated is going to be a pleasant experience.

"Now, Mrs. Grant, you mustn't talk that way; General Grant has been so much better you are used to it, and this setback makes you nervous. You will see it is just the fatigue of writing, and he is free at last and can rest. You'll see"; and so on, or words to that effect. I did not then understand and cannot now recall the whole conversation as I overheard it, but evidently the speakèrs were worried about my grandfather; he had finally ended his book, and was not so well as before. It was true he had not come out-f-doors that day, nor dressed as usual. I felt queer. As the French say, "My heart tightened itself," and I wondered what was happening or impending. I realized I was small and left out. For two or three days my grandfather stayed in his room, and I was not allowed in. The only news I had was when I asked it of my mother or Aunt Nelly. They would say in passing, "No, grandpapa isn't quite so well, dear," and then hurry on. Grandmama and my father scarcely ever came out of the sick-room, while the nurse or our old butler, Harrison—who had been helping as my grandfather's body-servant—would give us no satisfaction either if we met them. Once old Harrison shook his head and said: "I'm afraid the general is very bad."

Once, also, I heard the doctor and my father, who had come into the little dining-room, talking: something about other doctors to come for a consultation. And then the house doctor said: "Isn't there something we can give the general to write, Colonel Grant ? It might make his interest and spirits rally; make him want to live."

And my father replied, "We can certainly invent something to propose to father, if you think writing will help him to rally again'—and they went away.

Soon—it may have been a day later, or two, or three—my mother came out on the balcony and called us children. "Quick, papa wants you to come and see dear grandpapa," she said.

We joined her, and she took us into the room where my grandfather was more or less reclining in his great chair. Grandmama was crying quietly, and was seated by his side. She had in her hands a handkerchief and a small bottle, perhaps of cologne, and was dampening my grandfather's brow. His hair was longer, and seemed to me more curled, while his eyes were closed in a face more drawn than usual and much whiter. Beads of perspiration stood on the broad forehead, and as I came forward old Harrison gently wiped similar drops from the back of the hand which was lying quietly on the chair-arm. My father sat at the opposite side from grandmama, and the doctor and nurse stood at the head, behind the in-valid. Old Harrison had been kneeling near my father, but rose, and I took his place. My mother came behind me. "Kiss grandpapa," she said, but I could not reach over and up to his cheek. I noticed once more how beautiful the hand was. I looked at my father, who nodded, and who put his arm about me. Then I stood for a moment or two, steadied by him, when my mother whispered : "We must go now." With a lump in my throat I leaned down and kissed the beautiful hand, and was led out of the room.

When Nurse Louise waked us and dressed us early next morning she told us about how "le général" had had a bad night; and that all the family had been down with him till two or three hours ago; so we must be very quiet and creep out of the house to our breakfast with-out any noise, as now "le général" was sleeping well, and so were the others.

As we opened our nursery door and stepped into the hall Harrison rushed across it from my parents' to my grandmother's door and knocked there, having left the first door thrown wide open. We reached the stairs and I saw my father throw on his jacket—probably he had been asleep in shirt and trousers, ready for any emergency. He rushed out of his bedroom and passed us without seeing us at all, taking the staircase faster than I could imagine his doing. My mother was moving about rapidly, putting on her things, also, and across the hall from grandmama came a sob, and "I'm coming," in reply to Harrison's quick knock.

What happened further I do not know, for Nurse Louise was very energetic and got us out rapidly; but as we were leaving we heard grandmama's voice saying, with the sob again: "Ida, do you think it's true ? I can't believe it ! I can't !"

We children were taken over to the hotel. I was put in my chair and told as usual to eat all the things before me; but I couldn't. I was too frightened by what I had heard. Other nurses and children appeared and asked news of the cottage; and Louise would shake her head, shrug her shoulders, and indicate she couldn't talk openly because of us children. Breakfast dragged; then one of those serving it suddenly said : "It is all finished over there at the cottage." And when Louise contradicted, the servant continued : "Yes, yes, a telegram has just been brought aver to forward from the hotel office, and the messenger said General Grant had just died."

I felt stunned, could not swallow another mouthful, and would have cried out then and there, had it not been that Nurse Louise, with good-hearted tact, undid the small brother's bib and said : "Come." So we got out into the air, and I was better at once. We returned to our cottage much later, though, for Louise's common sense had suggested a long walk as an excellent method of keeping us out of the way, and we had gone round the lake before reaching home.

It was a sad household. My father was with the undertaker down-stairs; mama was busy in her room and couldn't see us. Grandmama was wailing and sobbing behind her own closed doors. There was not anything we could do, and we wandered away to the garden. Against all rules, when nurse and my brother settled down to rest, I went slowly off by myself further on into the woods. I think this was the first time in my life I had felt heavy with sorrow. I did not go far—discipline forbade it—but once out of sight I sat down to digest the great trouble. It was not just a relative who had passed away out of my small world, but a friend and comrade from whom I had always had both understanding and sympathy, together with a strong, gentle, protective affection, which I was too young to analyze yet old enough to appreciate deeply. I had at times realized his suffering and patience, so admiration and pity mixed with the other sentiments which overcame me finally when I broke down. The storm passed. I dried my tears and thought ; was there nothing I could do to help my father, who was in the cottage "attending to every-thing," it had been said.

I seemed without resources for usefulness. Then I remembered one made wreaths for dead people.. . Perhaps I could make a wreath. Often we had done so in play, with nurse's help.

Uncertain Whether I could succeed alone, I looked for flowers, but there were none in sight there in the woods. Discouraged and tired, I gazed about me, when suddenly it occurred to me that the prettiest wreath I had ever made was a flat one of oak-leaves. There were enough of these at hand. I was at once aflame with importance in my effort and enthusiasm. I picked a quantity of leaves from the low sprouts of some fine trees, ran over them to see they were all perfect, and sat down to work. It went quickly, and in a half-hour or so the wreath of broad, shining leaves was finished, and 'looked well, as it lay spread on a flat-rock table at hand.

The next thing was to get it to my grandfather. I knew my father was in those closed rooms, and thinking to find him, I ran back to the house, approaching from the rear, so the garden and nurse should both be avoided. Once on the balcony I went and looked in the window of the death-chamber. My father was not there, but in the centre of the room stood a coffin, a thing I had never seen before; and moving about, two men, strangers to me, were setting out a few chairs, probably for use at the service soon to be held. I was recognized at once by the elder of the two men, who came to the door and inquired what I wanted.

"I've brought grandpapa a wreath ; I thought my papa was here," I replied. He said, after a little hesitation: "Sure, miss, and your papa is just after going up to snatch a little sleep, and I wouldn't disturb him if I was you. Suppose ye give me the wreath to lay on the gineral. It's a mighty fine wreath; and I think there's no harm in your coming in to help me yourself."

In I went with the undertaker, and he laid the wreath carefully in a circle on the casket. Then he left me standing there, gazing down at the familiar face under the glass, while he went off about his business of tidying up. It seemed heartbreaking that my grandfather should be so still, and dead.

I could not struggle against the queer feeling assailing me, and I lost track of things for a time, till I remember being carried in someone's arms up to my mother's room, and laid on the big bed there, and she was reproaching me for being disobedient and having run away from nurse.

However, later I was very proud, because with car-loads of flowers coming by every train, and florists bringing special great set pieces which filled the house with their beauty and fragrance, my wreath was the only one on the casket. Finally it began to fade and the leaves to curl a little; but my father reassured me: "Never mind, pet, my little girl's wreath is going to be varnished so it will keep, and then it shall be buried with grandpapa. I know he would have liked to keep it with him al-ways."

And I was glad to have it so. Somehow my deepest sentiment had gone into the little, silly contribution to the offerings brought him.

Impossible to describe in detail what our family life was from July 23d to August 8th. I remember vast crowds of men's hatless heads, and of women in black. The flowers piled up, and the resolutions of sympathy, engraved and framed, piled up, too. Letters were coming in by the basket-load. Yet there was no confusion or talk. The maximum result was obtained always by my father's power of organization, his patience and self-control. Devoted as he was to his wonderful parent, and consequently doubly hurt by his sad death, my father never let a complaint escape him, and he did without the privacy he must have longed for. He saw to every detail, answered questions from all over the country. He decided everything connected with the funeral trip, and attended with much care to details. This was not easy, with all the veiled rivalries among those who had united to honor Grant and mourn his loss.

My father went down to New York with the body on the special train, draped with black, which carried the casket. My uncle Ulysses came on to stay with and look after the family, taking us down to New York in a special car. Once in town we were all lodged at the old Fifth Avenue Hotel. Tremendous crowds circulated in the streets below our windows, and I was deeply interested in watching the people. Clothes, all black, were brought in, and each member of our party bought something which was necessary to complete wardrobes in need of deep crêpe weeds. Flags everywhere hung at half-mast, and a long continuous procession passed through the doors of New York's City Hall, to pay respect to my grandfather. For days his remains lay in state, and the crowds went solemnly by; men, women, and children, slowly moving on weary feet, waiting, looking, straining for a last glimpse at the well-known face.

The morning of August 8th came, and early our family took tip its stand in the funeral carriages, ready to swing into line as soon as the great hearse should pass. Even my childish brain was awed by the immensity of the demonstration. From 23d Street to 116th Street a five-mile stretch of sympathetic people covered sidewalks and fences, windows and doors, and every face was sad ; some were even weeping. Except the crowd, I recall little of those hours spent in the funeral carriage. With both my parents and my Aunt Nelly we were shut into intense heat and semi-darkness. Some sandwiches, the long silences, and now and then a question asked and answered ; my weary body and my own wet eyes I only felt occasionally, but I remember well my father's white, set face and his strained, hoarse voice. My young brother gave my mother some difficulty, for his movements and talk were not always easy to control. I think she must have had great trouble keeping both of us children in order.

At last we arrived at Riverside, and the afternoon sun shone brightly down on the tiny temporary brick tomb. The services, simple and beautiful, were carried out rapidly, without a hitch, and ended with "taps." Then we drove back to our hotel with a feeling of unutterable weariness and loss.

From that time till the spring of 1889 we lived with my grandmother Grant. All the first part of those years my father worked at the book, which my grandfather had left in manuscript to his heirs. It had to be gone over still and the profs corrected, while endless detail work was also involved getting maps and illustrations carefully prepared. Instead of the little office in the second-floor front, this room was switched back to its old employ of my grandmother's boudoir, and she moved again into what had been recently my grandfather's bedroom. The plain work furniture went up to the third floor, and there, in a room just over the earlier office, my father carried through his daily task—saw publishers, arranged their terms, and carried out in de-tail the instructions of the dead author. As the money came in after the first edition of the memoirs was sold, he handled all his mother's business in addition.

It was a great gratification to have the two volumes, written with such courage, while fighting death and enduring a martyrdom of suffering, fully appreciated by the public, and attaining the results for which they were written.

The first check sent in by the publishers beat all records for size. It was for over three hundred thousand dollars !