and after the war. The boy is nine years old. The youngest is aged six, and named Abram— after his grandfather. This is the boy I noticed up in the cherry tree, as I waited for the general on my arrival.

"Have you met mother?" asked my host. "No," I replied.

"Oh, I want to introduce you then; you must know mother." He spoke of her so often, and so tenderly, I could not but see that she was constantly in his thoughts.

I went down-stairs to see her. She is a very small woman, and looks almost diminutive beside her stalwart son. She is seventy-nine, quick in her movements, and in full possession of her mental faculties. She is thin, white-haired, rosycheeked, and has a prominent nose-like many another who has adorned the pages of history.

On being introduced I found her rather reticent. She seemed to be most concerned about the children and the work around the house, that it should go on uninterruptedly and in the proper manner. She was evidently a matter-of-fact, common-sense old lady, and I could not but admire her, remembering her sacrifices for her children, and how she had cared for her boy James, laying for him the foundation of his present eminence when she counseled him to "remember his God and study books."

She did not once express the least surprise at

what had happened at Chicago, nor in any way refer to the general as a public man. She called him "my son," and remarked on the weather, their new place, and asked if I was married and how many children I had. I could not get her to talk about politics in Washington, and I do not believe she is over-well pleased with her son's nomination for President. Of course, she is proud of him, and desires his success, but he was already a senator, and I think the old lady would have preferred to have had him go no higher. Now she knows he will be away from their rural home most of the time, and, pressed by public care and duty, she can have him less to herself.

When informed of the nomination, Mother Garfield and the general's wife expressed to their intimate friends, their fear that there was now "an end to privacy for several years." Neither were surprised from newspaper reading of the outcome of the convention. They had both heard the talk about the general's name, but had hoped it meant nothing. In fact, they had come to the conclusion that it did mean nothing, when suddenly, the news came that he was nominated.

While I was talking with Mother Garfield, the general's wife, clad in a plain, calico dress, came in with a work-basket, and sat down to darn the children's stockings. Presently, it began to rain, and, to my surprise, the old lady went out bareheaded, and brought in a chair off the lawn. I

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remonstrated, and desired to assist her, but she only laughed and said: "Never mind, it won't hurt me."

At dinner, everybody was hunted up, and one of the general's secretaries said: "It is the general's orders everybody shall come; he would not like it if any one went away hungry." As there were five or six of us, I thought it something of an imposition, and began to apologize, saying I could wait until I got to Cleveland, but the general would not hear to such a proposition, so I went in and sat down. I found at the table before us a goodly company of a dozen guests, among whom were Colonel Rockwell, a school-mate of Garfield's, as the general himself informed me, with his wife, Hon. A. G. Riddle, of Washington, and Major Bundy, of the New York Mail; both these gentlemen, like myself, engaged in writing a history of Garfield's life.

I sat next to Mrs. Garfield, and she almost immediately began talking about the army, mentioning her cousin, General Ingalls, and asking me if I had not often met, out in the West, an old friend of hers and the general's—General Hazen.

I found her a ready and charming conversationalist, and withal, so easy, modest, gentle and attentive in her manner, it was a pleasure to be beside her.

The children had a separate table, near Mrs. Garfield, and they kept constantly speaking to