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."