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this morning。 She had had no attack for months。
Jean was so full of life and energy that she was constantly
is danger of overtaxing her strength。 Every morning she was in
the saddle by half past seven； and off to the station for her
mail。 She examined the letters and I distributed them： some to
her； some to Mr。 Paine； the others to the stenographer and
myself。 She dispatched her share and then mounted her horse
again and went around superintending her farm and her poultry the
rest of the day。 Sometimes she played billiards with me after
dinner； but she was usually too tired to play； and went early to
bed。
Yesterday afternoon I told her about some plans I had been
devising while absent in Bermuda； to lighten her burdens。 We
would get a housekeeper； also we would put her share of the
secretary…work into Mr。 Paine's hands。
Noshe wasn't willing。 She had been making plans herself。
The matter ended in a compromise； I submitted。 I always did。
She wouldn't audit the bills and let Paine fill out the checks
she would continue to attend to that herself。 Also； she would
continue to be housekeeper； and let Katy assist。 Also； she would
continue to answer the letters of personal friends for me。 Such
was the compromise。 Both of us called it by that name； though I
was not able to see where my formidable change had been made。
However； Jean was pleased； and that was sufficient for me。
She was proud of being my secretary； and I was never able to persuade
her to give up any part of her share in that unlovely work。
In the talk last night I said I found everything going so
smoothly that if she were willing I would go back to Bermuda in
February and get blessedly out of the clash and turmoil again for
another month。 She was urgent that I should do it； and said that
if I would put off the trip until March she would take Katy and
go with me。 We struck hands upon that； and said it was settled。
I had a mind to write to Bermuda by tomorrow's ship and secure a
furnished house and servants。 I meant to write the letter this
morning。 But it will never be written； now。
For she lies yonder； and before her is another journey than that。
Night is closing down； the rim of the sun barely shows above the
sky…line of the hills。
I have been looking at that face again that was growing dearer
and dearer to me every day。 I was getting acquainted with
Jean in these last nine months。 She had been long an exile from
home when she came to us three…quarters of a year ago。 She had
been shut up in sanitariums； many miles from us。 How eloquent
glad and grateful she was to cross her father's threshold again！
Would I bring her back to life if I could do it？ I would not。
If a word would do it； I would beg for strength to withhold
the word。 And I would have the strength； I am sure of it。 In
her loss I am almost bankrupt； and my life is a bitterness； but I
am content： for she has been enriched with the most precious of
all giftsthat gift which makes all other gifts mean and poor
death。 I have never wanted any released friend of mine restored
to life since I reached manhood。 I felt in this way when Susy
passed away； and later my wife； and later Mr。 Rogers。 When Clara
met me at the station in New York and told me Mr。 Rogers had died
suddenly that morning； my thought was； Oh； favorite of fortune
fortunate all his long and lovely lifefortunate to his latest
moment！ The reporters said there were tears of sorrow in my
eyes。 Truebut they were for ME； not for him。 He had suffered
no loss。 All the fortunes he had ever made before were poverty
compared with this one。
Why did I build this house； two years ago？ To shelter this
vast emptiness？ How foolish I was！ But I shall stay in it。 The
spirits of the dead hallow a house； for me。 It was not so with
other members of the family。 Susy died in the house we built in
Hartford。 Mrs。 Clemens would never enter it again。 But it made
the house dearer to me。 I have entered it once since； when it
was tenantless and silent and forlorn； but to me it was a holy
place and beautiful。 It seemed to me that the spirits of the
dead were all about me； and would speak to me and welcome me if
they could： Livy； and Susy； and George； and Henry Robinson； and
Charles Dudley Warner。 How good and kind they were； and how
lovable their lives！ In fancy I could see them all again； I
could call the children back and hear them romp again with
Georgethat peerless black ex…slave and children's idol who came
one daya flitting strangerto wash windows； and stayed
eighteen years。 Until he died。 Clara and Jean would never enter
again the New York hotel which their mother had frequented in
earlier days。 They could not bear it。 But I shall stay in this
house。 It is dearer to me tonight than ever it was before。
Jean's spirit will make it beautiful for me always。 Her lonely
and tragic deathbut I will not think of that now。
Jean's mother always devoted two or three weeks to Christmas
shopping； and was always physically exhausted when Christmas Eve
came。 Jean was her very own childshe wore herself out present…
hunting in New York these latter days。 Paine has just found on
her desk a long list of namesfifty； he thinkspeople to whom
she sent presents last night。 Apparently she forgot no one。 And
Katy found there a roll of bank…notes； for the servants。
Her dog has been wandering about the grounds today；
comradeless and forlorn。 I have seen him from the windows。 She
got him from Germany。 He has tall ears and looks exactly like a
wolf。 He was educated in Germany； and knows no language but the
German。 Jean gave him no orders save in that tongue。 And so
when the burglar…alarm made a fierce clamor at midnight a
fortnight ago； the butler； who is French and knows no German；
tried in vain to interest the dog in the supposed burglar。 Jean
wrote me； to Bermuda； about the incident。 It was the last letter
I was ever to receive from her bright head and her competent hand。
The dog will not be neglected。
There was never a kinder heart than Jean's。 From her
childhood up she always spent the most of her allowance on
charities of one kind or another。 After she became secretary and
had her income doubled she spent her money upon these things with
a free hand。 Mine too； I am glad and grateful to say。
She was a loyal friend to all animals； and she loved them
all； birds； beasts； and everythingeven snakesan inheritance
from me。 She knew all the birds； she was high up in that lore。
She became a member of various humane societies when she was
still a little girlboth here and abroadand she remained an
active member to the last。 She founded two or three societies
for the protection of animals； here and in Europe。
She was an embarrassing secretary； for she fished my
correspondence out of the waste…basket and answered the letters。
She thought all letters deserved the courtesy of an answer。
Her mother brought her up in that kindly error。
She could write a good letter； and was swift with her pen。
She had but an indifferent ear music； but her tongue took to
languages with an easy facility。 She never allowed her Italian；
French； and German to get rusty through neglect。
The telegrams of sympathy are flowing in； from far and wide；
now； just as they did in Italy five years and a half ago； when
this child's mother laid down her blameless life。 They cannot
heal the hurt； but they take away some of the pain。 When Jean
and I kissed hands and parted at my door last； how little did we
imagine that in twenty…two hours the telegraph would be bringing
words like these：
〃From the bottom of our hearts we send out sympathy；
dearest of friends。〃
For many and many a day to come； wherever I go in this house；
remembrancers of Jean will mutely speak to me of her。 Who can
count the number of them？
She was in exile two years with the hope of healing her
maladyepilepsy。 There are no words to express how grateful I
am that she did not meet her fate in the hands of strangers； but
in the loving shelter of her own home。
〃MISS JEAN IS DEAD！〃
It is true。 Jean is dead。
A month ago I was writing bubbling and hilarious articles
for magazines yet to appear； and now I am writingthis。
CHRISTMAS DAY。 NOON。Last night I went to Jean's room at
intervals； and turned back the sheet and looked at the peaceful
face； and kissed the cold brow； and remembered that heartbreaking
night in Florence so long ago； in that cavernous and silent vast
villa； when I crept downstairs so many times； and turned back a
sheet and looked at a face just like this oneJean's mother's
faceand kissed a brow that was just like this one。 And last
night I saw again what I had seen thenthat strange and lovely
miraclethe sweet； soft contours of early maidenhood restored by
the g