For awhile the dreadful intelligence was held back from the faithful heart that had sheltered James A. Garfield in his childhood. At length, after breakfast, she sought, as usual, the daily telegram from her son. Finding the dispatch, she was about to read, when her granddaughter took the message from her trembling hands.
“Grandma,” she said, “would you be surprised to hear bad news this morning?”
“Why, I don’t know,” said the old lady.
“Well, I should not,” said Mrs. Larabee, “I have been fearing and expecting it all the morning.”
“Grandma,” said Ellen Larabee, “there is sad news.”
“Is he dead?” asked the old lady, tremulously.
“He is.”
The quick tears started in the sensitive eyes. There was no violent paroxysm of grief. No expression of frenzy told of the anguish within.
“Is it true?” she asked, with quivering lips. “Then the Lord help me, for if he is dead what shall I do?”
It was the bitterest of all the outcries of sorrowing human nature—the anguish of a mother’s breaking heart. The morning of the 21st of September broke calmly from the sea. Every thing was in readiness for the departure. For a brief period in the morning the people of Elberon were permitted to view the face of the dead. The coffin rested upon supports draped in black. There were few decorations. Upon the top were two black palm leaves. Some white flowers and a hanging basket of ferns with some branches of cycas leaves, emblematic of heroism, completed the decorations.