body passed through the streets of our little village, all the
townspeople left their houses and shops, and stood in silent rows
along the sidewalks, with their heads uncovered to the falling snow.
Soldiers of his old regiments, now busy men of affairs in the great
city below us, came to march behind him for the last time. Officers of
the Loyal Legion, veterans of the Mexican War, regulars from
Governor's Island, with their guns reversed, societies, political
clubs, and strangers who knew him only by what he had done for his
country, followed in the long procession as it wound its way through
the cold, gray winter day to the side of the open grave. Until then I
had not fully understood what it meant to me, for my head had been
numbed and dulled; but as the body disappeared into the grave, and the
slow notes of the bugle rose in the final call of "Lights out," I put
my head on my aunt's shoulder and cried like a child. And I felt as
though I were a child again, as I did when he came and sat beside my
bed, and heard me say my prayers, and then closed the door behind him,
leaving me in the darkness and alone.

But I was not entirely alone, for Beatrice was true and understanding;
putting her own grief out of sight, caring for mine, and giving it the
first place in her thoughts. For the next two days we walked for hours
through the autumn woods where the dead leaves rustled beneath our
feet, thinking and talking of him. Or for hours we would sit in
silence, until the sun sank a golden red behind the wall of the
Palisades, and we went back through the cold night to the open
fireside and his empty chair.



ST. CHARLES HOTEL,