Washington without Charles Sumner was to my mother “Hamlet” with Hamlet left out. Sumner had died during my parents’ absence in Santo Domingo the year before. At the time of his death, Sumner’s sister, Mrs. Hastings, telegraphed from San Francisco, asking me to place a wreath upon her brother’s grave. A public funeral was given him by the State of Massachusetts, from which women were excluded. When the authorities heard of Mrs. Hastings’ request they decided that it must be honored. I well remember that March day when I drove to Mt. Auburn in the first carriage behind the hearse, the only woman in the funeral procession. The black horses walked the entire way from the State House to Mt. Auburn, six or seven miles; the tramp, tramp of the military escort, the feet of that great host of mourners, seemed to beat out the refrain: He was the noblest Roman of them all! Glancing back over my life, certain years stand out clearly like signposts, while others loom nebulous and vague. The centennial year of 1876 is one of the vivid ones, for it brought my first meeting with the veiled figure, Grief, with whom all of us must walk part of the journey. Early in the year my father died. The date of his death, January 9th, is one of the few anniversaries I never forget; each year brings me a better understanding of his great heart, his chivalric nature. At first it seemed impossible that he was really gone, that I should never again see his face or hear his voice. After the first forlorn sense of loss came the strange process of readjustment. Life did go on without that dominant figure to shape its course, and certain new responsibilities came upon me. My mother had always left to my father the practical matters of our family life, and these to a large degree devolved upon me. Had I been of an introspective turn I might have shrunk from the part I was now to play. Instead, I seized the reins as he dropped them, eager as Phaeton to drive the steeds of Apollo. If there were a horse to buy, I did not hesitate, but promptly bought the best horse I could find, only to learn that the dear animal--we called him Ha’pence--was afflicted with quarter-cracks cleverly patched up by the jockey who sold him to us. When there was a new house to buy, I went to a house agent I had met in society and was ignorant enough to ask him what his commission was. The agent took advantage of my simplicity and charged us two hundred dollars. Years after I learned that in Boston he who sells a house pays the agent’s commission; to collect from both buyer and seller was sharp practice, as the agent, Mr. M., knew perfectly well. It was at this time that my mother gave me the nickname “Boss.” I did not like it as well as my other nickname “Duchess”, but I had not the courage to rebel.