In 1873 a girl baby was born to them, and the fond mother bestowed upon it the name of Kate. It is said to have been a beautiful child, and was adored by its parents, and by the grandparents on either side. For by this time the father and mother of William McKinley had removed from Poland and taken up their residence in Canton. The strong son had drawn them from the place which had been home so long and established them in the city that had given him so cordial a welcome. When little Kate was nearly four years old Mrs. Saxton, mother of Mrs. McKinley, died. The blow was a peculiarly severe one, for within a month her second child, also a girl, was born—but to close her eyes on the earth almost as soon as she had opened them. They named her Ida, the father hoping in the brief days of the delicate little life that the child would bring back vigor and interest in existence to the depressed wife, whose grief at the death of her own mother was scarcely assuaged. But in this gentle hope he was doomed to disappointment, for little Ida faded from among them. And then the third great blow fell, for a few weeks after the baby’s death little Kate sickened and died. Ida Saxton had been a strong, healthy girl. She was not delicate of physique; and while she was in no sense buxom or amazonian, she was far from frail. Yet the accumulated shocks and sorrows of those sad days completely unstrung her. And the woman who deserved and might have had a world of happiness, a heaven of domestic joy on earth, never again was blest with health. No more children came to them, but their home has always catered to the rippling laughter and the joyous songs of young life. Even to the end, even on that last day at Buffalo, when horror leaped from the heart of happiness, there were young people with them. But in that hour of his wife’s great trial, when he could not share her suffering, nor take an iota from the black pall of grief which enveloped her, William McKinley began a life of devotion a thousand times more gentle and kind than the intensest courtship of a lover. And through all the long years that have followed—for twenty-four long years—he has never wavered night nor day in the most assiduous care a husband can possibly bestow. No time has been so hurried, no demand of politics so exacting, no weariness so heavy that he has failed to remember her. If near her, he has gone to her, and expressed by his presence the thoughtful love which he felt. If she were absent he has always sent her a message. And, however brief, however little he might have to say that would interest her, he has kept strong and true that faith in her wifely heart that he would “love, cherish and protect” her in an infinitely more tender way than any vow could bind him.