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the olden time. How blessed is memory, holding in its clasp all the pleasures of a long life, in which even the sorrows of the past lend the charm of a sacred sadness to soften and temper the whole. Can we imagine the higher joy which memory will bring to us in the world above-when the spirits long separated blend in the higher embrace of a purer love, and memory binds together the life that was and the life that is indissoluble forever? We are growing old, because we are mortal: but the immortal lies just beyond, where we shall live in perpetual youth. If God has given to us precious memories on earth, let us thank him that they will bloom again with still richer fragrance in the Paradise above. Forgive this little bit of sermonizing, the force of old habit, perhaps.

"I have sent you a little book of my own, just from the pressdoubtless the last contribution I will be permitted to make to the literature of our time. It will teach you nothing that you do not already know; but it will serve as a remembrance from me whilst you are dwelling upon its pages.

"I read with great interest the account of your satisfaction and that of your Church with your new pastor, Mr. Kirk. I have no doubt that he is worthy of all your praise; and that he will soon repair the waste which may have been occasioned during the dreary time when you were without a guide. Tender him my congratulations and my earnest prayer that his may be a long ministry with you, and fruitful as it is long. Last summer I paid a visit to Athens, enjoying the Centennial of the University, in which I took some part. I felt like one standing upon the edge of a great chasm, when one member of my class alone with myself headed the long procession, the oldest of all the Alumni, excepting one. I enjoyed greatly the meeting with the descendants of the old stock that I knew sixty years ago-but felt all the time as though I were stepping from this into the world beyond. "Give my love to Saida, if with a grown up son by her side she has not outgrown the sweet girlhood in which I remember her still. To Mrs. Machen say that it puzzles me to place her where her blessed mother used to stand in my thought-always trying to blend two generations together which are so distinct.

"I ought, before closing, to add that in a visit to Atlanta last summer I had the great pleasure of meeting your brother Andrew and his wife. He was the least changed in appearance of all the men in our generation-with the same face, distinct in all its features, which he had in boyhood.

"We are all in comfortable health with the exception of my daughter, Mary, who is just convalescing from an attack of pneumonia which was very severe but which has yielded to vigorous medical treatment. She is, however, still very weak and requires tender nursing.

"Affectionately yours,

"B. M. PALMER."

CHAPTER XIX.

THE FINAL STADIUM OF SERVICE, NOBLE THOUGH

BROKEN.-Continued.

(1889-1902.)

DOMESTIC LIFE.-LONGING FOR HER WHO HAD BEEN TAKEN; BUT HAPPILY APPRECIATIVE OF REMAINING HOUSEHOLD BLESSINGS.-REMOVAL FROM THE MANSE INTO HIS OWN HOUSE.-CONGRATULATORY RECEPTION GIVEN HIM ON HIS EIGHTIETH BIRTHDAY.-COMMENDATION BY THE PRESS. LETTERS OF CONGRATULATION.-Subsequent BIRTHDAYS.-TRIP TO SOUTH CAROLINA IN APRIL, 1899.-LETTERS.

'HE reader of the foregoing pages has already seen that

Dr. Palmer is not to be thought of as a lonely man in his

home during these closing years of his life. The partner of his joys, sorrows, burdens, responsibilities and honors, between whom and himself an unwonted affection had existed, had indeed been taken away; and her loss was not and could not be replaced. But there were still left to him, his devoted daughter, Mrs. Caldwell and her honored husband and their children, one of whom bore his own name. There was also another granddaughter, left as a precious legacy and reminder of herself by Mrs. Colcock, the daughter who had been such a comfort to him; upon whom he had poured out his heart's love. He is frequently found, in the course of his pilgrimage through these later years, thanking God for allowing them all to live together in so much happiness for so long a time.

Passionate longings for her, who had forever gone, would sometimes possess him; and a wail of agony from a sense of his desolation would escape into the ear of an old and tried friend. Thus he writes to Rev. Robert H. Reid, of Spartanburg County, South Carolina, March 31, 1890: "Since the death of my wife, I have a great desire to see once more some of her relatives, whom I can never see any more on earth. . . . My visit to Columbia will be one of pain and sadness. It is the place where the ties were formed which are now broken forever . . . where children were born to us, who now sleep with their mother; and the desolation will seem most complete in the midst of those old associations. Still I have almost a pas

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sionate wish to be there. . . with a longing something like that of a pilgrim for some holy shrine."

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But if he was moved with a great longing which would never be filled, he knew he had much left in his home. cordingly, he writes, to Mrs. Caldwell, from Clarksville, Tenn., June 9, 1890:

"Yesterday was an idle day with me, and particularly lonesome as it was spent in my chamber in the hotel. I recognized most feelingly how desolate my house would be, if it were not filled with your presence and that of the dear children. Truly God has been merciful to me in this, and my heart goes out to him in daily gratitude and praise. I have no words in which to say how constant and how great a comfort you are to me. I cannot write it without a moistened eye, for I lean upon your love as I once leaned upon that of your mother. God bless you, my child and fill you with all good, for your dutifulness to your stricken father! A thousand loves to all in the house. "Ever truly and fondly,

Later, he also wrote, to his granddaughter:

"B. M. PALMER."

"HENRY CLAY AVENUE, NEW ORLEANS, LA., October 29, 1894. "MY DARLING GUSSIE: You must not measure my delight on receiving your favor of the 15th, by the delay of this reply. You know my dilatory habit in the matter of correspondence-especially now that my eyes are growing dim, so that I see with extreme difficulty both in reading and in writing. Perhaps, too, I was the more negligent, knowing the active interchange of letters between yourself and the other members of the family. Both Auntie and Fanny keep you posted as to the news of the home and of the town; so that I will not invade their province, but confine myself to mere sentiment. Ah, my child, you do not know how close you lie to this old heart of mine; for you are embalmed in two memories singularly dear to me. First, there is the memory of your own mother, whom it is your misfortune not to have known, and of whom therefore, you can have no recollection. She was the sweetest of women, and would have cherished you with inexpressible tenderness, had she been spared. Then there is the memory of your grandmother, into whose arms you fell as a second mother-and whose loving care you can remember. Through them both you come to me, as a most precious legacy: and in yourself have established a claim of your own, by growing up the bright, happy, loving daughter that you are. I ought to be glad of an opportunity of putting this on paper before your eye; for a certain awkward kind of reserve makes its difficult to utter in speech what might embarrass another to hear. My grandchildren, with your dear Auntie, go far to

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