hand, strives to get up a magnetic grasp of your hand and a breath of the repose which, ever and always, hovers over the room where my mother lives.
I could not write any more yesterday. We had a great many callers, gentlemen to see Mr. C —— , and we all grew too weary to make ourselves agreeable, either by talking or writing. E. has been in quite early this morning to attend to poor Mr. Hadley. From E.'s account, I think he must be near the last of his journey. I hoped in a day or two to go to see him, he is so very near. But now, while I write, there comes a tap at the door, which (we all being invalids), I answer, with a cheerful "Come." The door is opened by a young lad about K's age; a stranger. He asks, "Is this Mrs. R?" To which I respond, "Yes." He steps in, bringing a clean shirt in his hand, and, laying it upon my lap, asks if I will "Please put buttons to it, as it is wanted for Mr. Hadley's shroud." The work-basket is lifted down from a nail on the beam over my head; and, while I select the proper buttons, the young man tells me he was alone with the dying man, and that he lived but a few mo-
