Nor can we consent to close this sketch of Mrs. Johnston’s life without attracting attention to her in her last and most endearing relation. In her most glorious days, she was never more beautiful than as a mother, and the matronly grace with which she cares for her child is sweeter to her husband than the early flush or the queenly prime when he occasionally ventured on presents of fruits and flowers. Would that we could now drop the curtain upon this fair domestic scene without noticing the cloud that darkened the prosperous life of Mrs. Johnston after her marriage. The death of Mr. Buchanan caused her the greatest grief of her life, and is its permanent bereavement. Again, she is at Wheatland—now her own summer home—mourning for the good man gone; but comforted by the thought that, though in all his dear familiar haunts she will see him nevermore, he is already understood and appreciated, and that history is even now doing him justice. Comforted also in knowing that her husband ministered to her uncle’s dying days, and that he received his unqualified confidence and affection. Comforted also in the sweet task, the great work of training up her boy to be worthy the name of James Buchanan Johnston.... This son grew to be a noble youth of fourteen, and died on the 25th of March, 1881. His character was affectionate and truthful, and his bearing was distinguished for its grace. His death was a terrible blow to his parents, of whom and of him Judge Jere. S. Black wrote as follows in a letter to a friend: “I have just returned from the funeral of James Buchanan Johnston, affected by a deeper sense of bereavement than any death outside of my own immediate family has caused me in many years. It is strange that we cannot get hardened to these calamities in the course of time, or at least learn to accept some measure of consolation when our friends are fatally stricken. But human philosophy, how well soever it may be strengthened by trials, is powerless to save our equanimity in cases like this. The overwhelming grief of that beloved mother and the awful break down of the proud father’s spirit cannot even be thought of without strong emotion. Besides that I had built much hope of my own upon the future of that bright and beautiful boy. He was gifted with uncommon talents, so well cultivated, and developing so rapidly, that even at the age of fourteen he was intellectually a full-grown man. With moral principles clearly defined and quick perceptions of the right, his sense of justice and his love of truth would have given him a dignity of character not surpassed by that of his illustrious uncle. But these visions of a moment are faded forever, and we can only sigh ‘for the touch of a vanished hand’ and listen in vain ‘for the sound of a voice that is still.’” XXI. MARY TODD LINCOLN.