There was a small apartment adjoining our usual
sitting-room which my father was wont to call his study, and, being fond
of books, he used there to pass much of his leisure time. It was quite a
long time after his death before my mother could enter that apartment.
She said to me one day, "Will you go with me, Clara, to your father's
study?" I replied, "Can you go _there_, Mamma?" "Yes, dear," said my
mother, and led the way to the door. No one had entered that room since
my father left it on the last night of his life, the door having been
locked on the day succeeding his death. As my mother softly turned the
key and opened the door, it seemed almost that we stood in my father's
presence, so vividly did the surroundings of that room recall him to our
minds. There stood his table and chair, and his writing desk stood upon
the table, and several books and papers were scattered carelessly upon
the table. The last book he had been reading lay open as he had left it;
it was a volume of Whitfield's sermons; it was a book which my father
valued highly, and is now a cherished keep-sake of my own. My mother
seemed quite overcome with grief. I know she had striven daily to
conceal her grief when in my presence, for she knew how I grieved for my
father; and she was aware that her tears would only add to my sorrow, so
for my sake it was that she forced herself to appear calm--almost
cheerful; but upon this occasion her grief was not to be checked.
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