He strove for calm, endeavoring to eat that he might the better conceal the unbidden tears which coursed down his cheeks.  Not until we reached a secluded retreat for our farewell talk, did his emotion express itself in words.  Grasping my husband’s hand he said: 

“My friend, I must leave you.  I broke bread and tasted salt with you, but I am too heartsick to visit, or to say good-bye.  You bring back my child, a bride, and I have no home to welcome her in, no wedding feast, or happiness to offer.  I must see and talk with her in the house of strangers, and it makes me suffer more than I can bear!  But before I go, I want you both to make me the promise that you will always work together, and have but one home, one purse, one wish in life, so that when you be old, you will not have to walk separately like we do.  You will not have bitter thoughts and blame one another.”

Here grandma interrupted meekly, “I know I did wrong, but I did not mean to, and I be sorry.”

The pause which followed our given promise afforded me the opportunity to clasp their withered hands together between mine, and gain from grandpa an earnest pledge that he would watch over and be kind to her, who had married him when he was poor and in ill health; who had toiled for him through the long years of his convalescence; who had been the power behind the throne, his best aid and counsellor, until time had turned her back in its tide, and made her a child again.

My husband followed him from the room to bestow the sympathy and encouragement which a strong man can give to a desponding one.

When the carriage was announced, which would take us to Benicia in time to catch the Sacramento steamer to San Francisco, I tied on grandma’s bonnet, pinned her shawl around her shoulders, and told her that we would take her home before proceeding on our way, but she crossed her hands in front and artlessly whispered: 

“No; I’d like to stay in town a while to talk with friends; but I thank you just the same, and shall not forget that I am to go to you, after you be settled in the new home, and his little daughter has learned to call you ‘mother.’”

We left her standing on the hotel piazza, smiling and important among the friends who had waited to see us off; but grandpa was nowhere in sight.

The steamer was at the landing when we reached Benicia so we hurriedly embarked and found seats upon the deck overlooking the town.  As the moonlight glistened on the white spray which encircled our departing boat, the sound of the Angelus came softly, sweetly, prayerfully over the water; and I looking up and beyond, saw the glimmering lights of Saint Catherine’s Convent, fitting close to scenes of my childhood, its silver-toned bells cheering my way to long life, honors, and many blessings!

APPENDIX

    Though the mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding
    small; Though with patience He stands waiting, with exactness grinds
    He all.