"Mother, I am afraid your plan will not work."
"But it will work, if you will only determine that it shall work."
"It is breaking in on the regular custom," he mildly replied.
"But you forget, father, these are war times, and old customs can be done away with for the once. The idea is economical, you must admit."
"Yes, mother, but we must think of something besides economy."
"I do think of something else. Public receptions are more democratic than stupid state dinners—are more in keeping with the spirit of the institutions of our country, as you would say if called upon to make a stump speech. There are a great many strangers in the city, foreigners and others, whom we can entertain at our receptions, but whom we cannot invite to our dinners."
"I believe you are right, mother. You argue the point well. I think that we shall have to decide on the receptions."
So the day was carried. The question was decided, and arrangements were made for the first reception. It now was January, and cards were issued for February.
The children, Tad and Willie, were constantly receiving presents. Willie was so delighted with a little pony, that he insisted on riding it every day. The weather was changeable, and exposure resulted in a severe cold, which deepened into fever. He was very sick, and I was summoned to his bedside. It was sad to see the poor boy suffer. Always of a delicate constitution, he could not resist the strong inroads of disease. The days dragged wearily by, and he grew weaker and more shadow-like. He was his mother's favorite child, and she doted on him. It grieved her heart sorely to see him suffer. When able to be about, he was almost constantly by her side. When I would go in her room, almost always I found blue-eyed Willie there, reading from an open book, or curled up in a chair with pencil and paper in hand. He had decidedly a literary taste, and was a studious boy. A short time before his death he wrote this simple little poem: