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 Mount Vernon
when victory hung in the balance; when defeat meant that Thomas Jefferson
and George Washington would be the first victims of a vengeful foe. She
saw her husband War-Governor of Virginia in its most perilous hour; she
lived to know that Washington had won; that Cornwallis was his "guest,"
and that no man, save Washington alone, was more honored in proud Virginia
than her beloved lord and husband. She saw a messenger on horseback
approach bearing a packet from the Congress at Philadelphia to the effect
that "His Excellency, the Honorable Thomas Jefferson," had been appointed
as one of an embassy to France in the interests of the United States, with
Benjamin Franklin and Silas Deane as colleagues, and, knowing her
husband's love for Franklin, and his respect for France, she leaned over
his chair and with misty eyes saw him write his simple "No," and knew that
the only reason he declined was because he would not leave his wife at a
time when she might most need his tenderness and sympathy.

And then they retired to beloved Monticello to enjoy the rest that comes
only after work well done--to spend the long vacation of their lives in
simple homekeeping work and studious leisure, her husband yet in manhood's
prime, scarce thirty-seven, as men count time, and rich, passing rich, in
goods and lands.

And then she died.