That summer my brother showed to my husband and myself his never-failing love and consideration in a very special manner. My husband’s mother had died a couple of years before, and her son and daughter and myself had decided that the most fitting memorial to one who was specially beloved and missed in the immediate vicinity of her old home would be the erection of a small free library to the memory of her and her husband. The building was completed, and my husband wished to have a dedication service, at which time he would hand over the keys to the library trustees in our village of Jordanville. My husband’s old home, a grant in the time of Queen Anne to his great-great-great-grandfather, Doctor James Henderson, of Scotland, had always been a place for which my brother had a deep affection. Situated as it was on the high Mohawk hills overlooking the great sweep of typical American farm-land, we lived a somewhat Scotch life in the old gray-stone mansion copied from the manor-house of Mr. Robinson’s Scotch ancestors. My brother delighted in our relationship with the neighbors in our environment, and accepted gladly my husband’s earnest desire that he should make the speech of dedication when the library was given by us to the little village of Jordanville. It was a great day for that tiny village when the President of the United States, his secretary of state, Mr. Elihu Root, and the Vice-President-elect, James S. Sherman, a native of the next county, after being our guests at luncheon, proceeded on my husband’s four-in-hand brake to the steps of the little colonial building three miles away, designed by our friend Mr. S. Breck P. Trowbridge. What a day it was and what fun we had! After the library exercises we held a reception at our home, Henderson House, and hundreds of every sort and kind of vehicle were left or tethered along the high ridge near our house. My brother and I stood at the end of the quaint old drawing-room, and an endless file of country neighbors passed before him, and each and all were greeted with his personal enthusiasm and the marvellous knowledge of their interests with which the slightest word from me seemed to make him cognizant. The sunset lights faded over the Mohawk hills and lost their last gleam in the winding river below before the last “dead-wood coach” or broken-down buggy had disappeared from the grounds of Henderson House, and then in the old hall my own family servants--many of them had been twenty or thirty years upon the place--came in to greet him after supper, and sang the hymn which they often sang on Sunday evenings: “God be with you till we meet again.” The stories of that day will be told in time to come by the children’s children of my kind friends of Warren Township, Herkimer County. Theodore himself writes of the experience as follows: