That had been his own private joke, his personal secret—his belief, his relationship with the Almighty. When he was dead, someone would find the little book in which he had pasted and annotated all the sayings of Jesus and know how wrong they had been in their hasty judgment. But now it did not matter. Nothing mattered now that he was going home. He had refused a third term as president, adhering to the precedent of George Washington. Turmoil and trouble were hot in the air, but somehow his nostrils did not dilate with the old war-horse eagerness at the threat of conflict. Now he felt no stallion urge to go charging armed with words into the midst of any fray. How well life was organized, he thought, as he found a softer spot in the pillow. Old age crept on a man unaware, bringing its own opiate to dull any lingering sense of loss. At length, letting the weight of weariness have its way with him, Thomas Jefferson fell asleep. Martha Randolph, tiptoeing in later, shading a candle with her hand, saw his face upturned, eyes closed, nose pinched a little, some brown freckles standing out on the gray, drained cheeks, and caught the eagle look about him. He will look like that when he is dead, she thought, as she blew out the candle and quietly slipped away. It was snowing hard when Jefferson awoke early in the morning. The raw ugliness of this new city of Washington was being charitably hidden under a blanket of downy feathers. The stumps where the big tulip poplars and oaks had been cut down to open up streets and clear space for building were now, all of them, so many thrones cushioned with ermine. The cutting of those trees had grieved Jefferson’s heart. How he hated to see a tree go down, though he had slaughtered a young forest in his younger years to clear the top of his little mountain for the home he visioned there. He looked down at the narrow streets where sleighs and wagons were already churning up dark mud to profane the virgin beauty of the snow. Martha came in early accompanied by two aides. Jefferson, half dressed, was eating the breakfast Burwell had brought up, picking the meat from a fried fish with his fingers, dipping bits of corn bread into new cane syrup. He dried his fingers quickly on his handkerchief, gulped the last swallow of tea, and motioned Burwell to take the food away. “And what brings you here so early, my dear Patsy?” he inquired. “I thought you would be starting out for Richmond and Charlottesville on the next coach?” “I knew you’d never finish this packing alone or let any one help you.” She kissed his forehead, smoothing back his rough motley of hair. “I declare, Burwell, if you don’t cut his hair soon, he’ll be riding the country looking like a mangy old lion!” she scolded. “Trim this on top and fix him a proper cue, or I shall go out and buy you a stylish wig, Mr. Ex-President.”