"As _having their own way_ is one of the greatest comforts of life to old people, I think their friends should endeavor to accommodate them in that as well as anything else. When they have long lived in a house, it becomes natural to them; they are almost as closely connected with it as the tortoise with his shell; they die if you tear them out. Old folks and old trees, if you remove them, 'tis ten to one that you kill them, so let our good old sister be no more importuned on that head; we are growing old fast ourselves, and shall expect the same kind of indulgences; if we give them, we shall have a right to receive them in our turn." Jane Mecom--the "Jenny" of Franklin's young life--had one great desire as the years went on: it was, to meet her brother once more and to review the past with him. "I will one day go to Philadelphia and give him a great surprise," the woman used to say. Let us picture such a day. Benjamin Franklin sat down in his new library. His books had been placed and his pictures hung. Among the pictures were two that were so choice that we may suppose them to be hung under coverings. One of them was the portrait of the King of France in its frame of four hundred brilliants, and the other was his own portrait with, perhaps, Turgot's famous inscription. It was near evening when he sat down and asked to be left alone. He opened his secretary, and took from it a letter from Washington. It read: "Amid the public gratulations on your safe return to America after a long absence, and many eminent services you have rendered it, for which as a benefited person I feel the obligation, permit an individual to join the public voice in expressing a sense of them, and to assure you that, as no one entertains more respect for your character, so no one can salute you with more sincerity or with greater pleasure than I do on the occasion." He took from his papers the resolution of the Assembly of Pennsylvania and began to read: "We are confident, sir, that we speak the sentiments of the whole country when we say that your services in the public councils and negotiations have not only merited the thanks of the present generation, but will be recorded in the pages of history to your immortal honor." He dropped the paper on the table beside the letter of Washington and sank into his armchair, for his pains were coming upon him again. He thought of the past--of old Boston, of Passy, of all his struggles--and he wished that he might feel again the sympathetic touch of the hand of his sister who had been so true to him, and who had loved him so long and well. It was near sunset of one of the longest days of the year when he heard a carriage stop before the door. "I can not see any one," he said. "I must have rest--I must have rest." There came a mechanical knock on his door. He did not respond. A servant's voice said outside, "There is a woman, master, that asks to see you." "I can not see any one," answered the tortured old man.