Eveline died at the age of five years.


The death of his brother Hiram, in 1904, made the past bleed
afresh for Mr. Burroughs. "He was next to Father and Mother in my
affections," he wrote. "Oh! if I had only done more for him--this
is my constant thought. If I could only have another chance! How
generous death makes us! Go, then, and make up by doing more for
the living."

As I walked with him about the Old Home, he said, "I can see Hiram
in everything here; in the trees he planted and grafted, in these
stone walls he built, in this land he so industriously cultivated
during the years he had the farm."

So large a place in his affections did this brother hold, and yet
how wide apart were these two in their real lives! I know of no
one who has pictured the pathos of lives so near and yet so far
apart as has George Eliot when she says: "Family likeness has
often a deep sadness in it. Nature, that great tragic dramatist,
knits us together by bone and muscle, and divides us by the subtler
web of our brains; blends yearning and repulsion, and ties us by our
heart-strings to the beings that jar us at every moment. We hear
a voice with the very cadence of our own uttering the thoughts we
despise; we see eyes--ah! so like our mother's--averted from us in
cold alienation."

We cannot tell why one boy in a family turns out a genius, while
the others stay in the ancestral ruts and lead humdrum, placid