about, out to spend week-ends with us; and then we could keep our
grandchildren while their parents were traveling in Europe! About a
month from that day, he was dead.

* * * * *

There is a path I must take daily to my work at college, which passes
through the University Botanical Garden. Every day I must brace myself
for it, for there, growing along the path, is a clump of old-fashioned
morning glories. Always, from the time we first came back to teach in
Berkeley and passed along that same path to the University, we planned
to have morning glories like those--the odor came to meet you yards
away--growing along the path to the little home we would at last settle
down in when we were old. We used always to remark pictures in the
newspapers, of So-and-so on their "golden anniversary," and would plan
about our own "golden wedding-day"--old age together always seemed so
good to think about. There was a time when we used to plan to live in a
lighthouse, way out on some point, when we got old. It made a strong
appeal, it really did. We planned many ways of growing old--not that we
talked of it often, perhaps twice a year, but always, always it was, of
course, _together_. Strange, that neither of us ever dreamed one would
grow old without the other.

And yet, too, there is the other side. I found a letter written during
our first summer back in Berkeley, just after we had said good-bye at
the station when Carl left for Chicago. Among other things he wrote: "It
just makes me feel bad to see other folks living put-in lives, when we
two (four) have loved through Harvard and Europe and it has only
commenced, and no one is loving so hard or living so happily. . . . I am
most willing to die now (if you die with me), for we have lived one