The death of her husband was the last event of Mrs. Washington’s life. It shattered her nerves and broke her heart. She never recovered from it. The shaft of agony which had buried itself in her soul was never removed. Fate had now dealt the last deadly blow to her earthly happiness. Her children, their father, the faithful, affectionate, sympathizing friend and counsellor, with whom through so many years she had stood side by side in great and grievous trials, dangers, and sorrows—all were gone? It was useless to strive to be courageous: a glance at the low, narrow vault under the side of the hill unnerved her. She stood, the desolate survivor, like a lone sentinel upon a deserted battle-field, regarding in mute despair the fatal destruction of hope, and love, and joy. Through all time that Saturday night would be the closing scene of her life, even though her existence should be lengthened to a span of years. “The memory of his faintest tone, In the deep midnight came upon her soul, And cheered the passing hours so sad, so lone, As on they rolled.” Thirty months numbered themselves among eternity’s uncounted years, and it became apparent to all that another death-scene was to be enacted, and the lonely occupant of the room above that other chamber of death, was reaching the goal of its long felt desire. The gentle spirit was striving to free itself, and the glad light in the dim eye asserted the pleasure experienced in the knowledge of the coming change. For many months Mrs. Washington had been growing more gloomy and silent than ever before, and the friends who gathered about her called her actions strange and incomprehensible. She stayed much alone, and declined every offer of company, but the last days of her life she seemed more cheerful and contented. When the end came on that bright, spring morning in 1801 she gave her blessing to all about her, and sank quietly to rest, in the seventy-first year of her age, and the third of her widowhood. Her resting-place beside her husband is, like Mecca and Jerusalem, the resort of the travellers of all nations, who, wandering in its hallowed precincts, imbibe anew admiration and veneration for the immortal genius, whose name is traced in imperishable remembrance in the hearts of his grateful countrymen. Side by side their bodies lie crumbling away, while their spirits have returned to their Author. The placid Potomac kisses the banks of that precious domain, and the ripple of the receding waves makes pleasant music all day along the shore of Mount Vernon.