"Do you not care for beauty?" I asked. "Care for it? I worship it! I used to cry when I was a little girl because I was so ugly. 'Never mind, Julia,' my dear mother would say, 'you can be my good little girl.' I used to wish I could ever once be called her 'pretty little girl.'"
But no face as thoroughly kind and good as hers can ever be plain. After all, is it ever the prettiest faces that are nearest our hearts? Having known Mrs. Grant for many years, I can truly say I have seen no woman so free from ostentation or affectation. Kindness of heart, genuine, sincere desire to make others happy, patience in adversity,—these are the traits of mind, manner, and heart that won for her so many warm friends. No other American woman has ever been so much fêted and honored as she. Most of us have had our little hour—a part of the world we live in has at one time or another turned upon us eyes of applauding affection, but she stood beside her husband at every foreign court in Europe, presiding on occasions when he held private audience with the greatest potentates of the world. Nothing seemed to mar her perfect simplicity—her admirable self-forgetfulness. I was engaged one day in taking a frugal luncheon—tea, toast, a dozen oysters—in my tiny basement dining-room, when Mrs. Grant's card was handed me.
Running upstairs and saying to my daughter, "Mrs. Grant must have a cup of tea," I was surprised to find the general seated near the door. After the greeting, he said gravely, "I don't see why I can't have a cup of tea as well as Mrs. Grant."
"I will send it to you, General! The doorway on the stair is too low for you to go down."
"It must be pretty low," he replied; "I've a mind to try it. I've stooped my head for less."
We divided the dozen oysters among us, brewed more tea, made more toast and enjoyed the meal—the general inquiring kindly of news from my husband, who was in England, having been sent by the Irish-Americans to see what could be done for O'Donnell, the Irish prisoner.
After there was no more to be expected at the lunch table, we adjourned to the library and I produced the met bullets my boys had found at Cottage Farm.
He laid it on the palm of his hand and looked at it long and earnestly.
"See, General," I said, "the bullets are welded together so as to form a perfect horseshoe—a charm to keep away witches and evil spirits."
But the general was not interested in amulets, charms, or evil spirits. After regarding it silently for a moment, he remarked:—