In August, however, he goes a little more fully into some matters of public interest, and writes: “For the last fortnight, I have virtually been living with Cabot, for I take all my meals at his house, though I sleep at my own. [Mrs. Roosevelt and the children were at Oyster Bay.] After breakfast, an hour spent by Cabot and myself in gloomy discussion over the folly of the Mug-wumps and the wickedness of the Democrats, I go to the office and work until four or five o’clock, most of my work taking the light but not always agreeable shape of a succession of interviews of varying asperity with Congressmen; then I go to gruff old Olney’s and play tennis with him and any other stray statesman, diplomat or military personage whom he has captured for an hour or two. Sometimes, Cabot and I dine alone; more often, we have in one or two of our cronies such as Tom Reed or Senator Davis of Minnesota.... I think the tariff deadlock will break in a day or two, when I shall be left alone here with so much work on hand, however, that I fear I shall not get away until the end of the month, when I shall go back to Sagamore and Edith and the blessed bunnies.” The intimacy with Senator Lodge, the charm of his library, where tradition and intellect always held sway, were amongst the most delightful associations that Washington gave to my brother during the many years spent there, both before the days of the White House and later under its roof. Late in August of that year my brother Elliott died. My brother Theodore came to me at once and we did together the things always so hard to do connected with the death of those we love, and he writes me afterward: “The sadness has been tempered by something very sweet when I think of the way I was with you, my own darling sister.” The quality of sharing, which, as I always say, was one of his most marked attributes, never showed more unselfishly than in times of sorrow. Almost immediately after the above letter, he encloses to me a clipping from the newspaper of Abingdon, Va., about my brother Elliott, who had lived there for some time in connection with the property of my husband in the Virginia mountains. No one, not even my brother Theodore himself, was ever more loved by those with whom he came in contact than was the “Ellie” of the early days in 20th Street, and later wherever he went he found rare and devoted friendship. _The Virginian_ (the name of the Abingdon paper) says: