He thought of the past--of old Boston, of Pa.s.sy, of all his struggles--and he wished that he might feel again the sympathetic touch of the hand of his sister who had been so true to him, and who had loved him so long and well.

It was near sunset of one of the longest days of the year when he heard a carriage stop before the door.

"I can not see any one," he said. "I must have rest--I must have rest."

There came a mechanical knock on his door. He did not respond.

A servant's voice said outside, "There is a woman, master, that asks to see you."

"I can not see any one," answered the tortured old man.

"She is an old woman."

"I could not see the queen."

He heard an echo of the servant's voice in the hall.

"He says that he could not see the queen."

"Well, tell him that I am something more than that to him. He will see me, or else I will die at his door."

There came a tap on the door, very gentle.

"Who is there?"

"It is Jane."

"What Jane--who?"

"She who folded the hands of your father for the last time. Open the door. There can be no No to me."

The door opened.

"Jenny!"

"Ben--let all t.i.tles pa.s.s now--I have come to give you a surprise."

The old woman sank into a chair.

"I have come to visit you for the last time," she said, "and to number with you our mercies of life. Let me rest before I talk. You are in pain."

"Jenny, my pains have gone. I had sat down in agony in this new room; my head ached as well as my body. I am happy now that you have come."

She moved her chair to his, and he took her hand again, saying:

"My sister's hand--your hand, Jenny, as when we were children. They are gone, all gone."

He looked in her face.

"Jenny, your hair is gray now, and mine is white. I have been reading over again this letter from Washington."

"Read it to me while I rest, then we will talk of old times."

He read the letter.

"Here are the resolutions of the a.s.sembly of Pennsylvania pa.s.sed on my return."

"Read them to me, brother, for I must rest longer before we talk of old times."

He read the resolutions.

"Jenny, let me uncover this. It is not vanity that makes me wish to do it now, but on account of what I wish to say."

He uncovered the portrait of the French king. The last light of the sun fell into the room and upon the frame, causing the four hundred diamonds to gleam.

"That was presented to me by the court of France."

"I never saw anything so splendid, brother. But what is the other picture under the cover?"

He drew away the screen.

"It is my portrait, Jenny."

"But, brother, what are those words written under it?"

Franklin read, "_Eripuit coelo fulmen, sceptrumque tyrannis._"

"Brother, what does that mean?"

"'He s.n.a.t.c.hed the thunderbolts from heaven, and the scepter from the tyrants.'"

"Who, brother?"

"Jenny, let us talk of these things no longer. Do you remember Uncle Ben?"

"He has never died. He lives in you. You have lived out his life. You have lived, Ben, and I have loved. Brother, you have done well. He who does his best does well."

"Jenny, can you repeat what Uncle Ben said under the tree on the showery day when the birds sang, nearly seventy years ago?"

"Let us repeat it together, brother. You have made that lesson your life."

"'More than wealth, more than fame, or any other thing, is the power of the human heart, and it is developed by seeking the good of others. Live for the things that live.'"

"Jenny, my own true sister, I have something else to show you--something that I value more than a present from a throne. I have here some 'pamphlets,' into which Uncle Ben put his soul before he sought to impress the same thoughts upon me. I want you to have them now, to read them, and give them to his family."

He went to his secretary and took from it the pamphlets.