For a while after the death of the little girls Mrs. McKinley concluded she wanted to live near “Mother McKinley,” and they two took a couple of rooms in the house of the elders. Her own mother was dead, and the grief-stricken woman sorely needed the strong, steadfast hand and hearty comfort of that fine old matron who had done so much in building the character of a grand American. But presently Major McKinley found a new interest with which he hoped to distract his wife’s mind from the cloud of sorrows that would not lift. He was building a house. He was establishing a home of their very own. And in the occupation of watching the workmen her spirits came back again. She could not regain her physical health, and never has. But the clouds were dispelled, and the old cheerful, happy look came back to the blue eyes, and the fair face again resumed its wonted roundness of outline and sweetness of expression. And these have never again departed. Of course no man deserves praise or credit for kindness to his wife; and when her illness renders attention the more necessary, there is still less reason for indulging in adulatory phrases. But in the case of William McKinley there is, even with the most undemonstrative, warrant for expressing the admiration which every good man and true woman must certainly feel. In spite of a physical weakness which stubbornly clung to the little woman, the home life of Major and Mrs. McKinley has always been singularly happy. She loved children, as has been said, and always had them around her. She loved music; and there has always been singing and the best of instrumentalists at her home. She loved roses; and the house has always been a bower of floral beauty and of perfume.