Doctor Dodson died in 1879. He was one of the heroic victims who sacrificed his life while battling in the ranks of the noble Howards, during the yellow fever epidemic.
Mrs. Dodson expired thirty minutes before death won the victory over her husband. She died in a room adjoining the one in which the doctor lay, and they endeavored to conceal her death from him. His mind was as clear as a cloudless sky, and when death began to lay his cold, icy finger on his body, he took hold of Lottie’s hand with his right, and Viola’s with his left.
“Ah, ha! my darlings, God says I must leave you for a while—yes, I go on before you, and I shall meet you all again, ah, ha! don’t you see? Eddie, my boy, good-by; you are sure to come to Heaven—Lottie would fetch you, anyway—Viola, she has put Harry on the right road. You are all safe, ah, ha!—yes, you are all safe now.”
Then he became quiet for a few moments, and they thought he was dead, but he began to mutter strange words.
“Ah, ha! here we come, Dolly; wait for me a moment—we will go to Heaven together, don’t you see, ah, ha! Dollary, I am coming. There she is, Lottie, don’t you see her; she is beckoning for me to come. Yes, Dollary, I am coming—ah, ha! Dolly, here we come—here we come!”
Then the noble soul stepped out and went with Dolly to Heaven.
The day that Dodson and his wife died, was to have been their golden wedding; but God had prepared for them a wedding feast of a different sort. They were buried in one grave, over which fragrant flowers bloom every spring, where friendly tears bedew the soil.
If any one should be disposed to think that this world is full of cold-hearted, selfish people, let him go and investigate the inward history of the great epidemics of 1878 and 1879, and he will soon see his great error. Look at the long list of those heroic physicians who fell in the fore-front of the battle, fighting to protect suffering humanity. Remember the large number of Protestant clergymen and Catholic priests who walked day after day, in the very jaws of death, comforting the sick; wrestling with the dreadful foe; and yielding up their lives, that others might live. Historians have written, and poets sung, about Leonidas, and his heroic band; but if I were a poet, I would find a band of heroes at Memphis, whose brave deeds should be the theme of my song. It is a slander to say that the world is full of selfish men; and any one who will investigate the history of those awful times, will admit it.
Harry Wallingford purchased a handsome residence, situated in the midst of a beautiful grove of native poplars, just east of Mr. Rockland’s, and not more than two hundred yards from it. Viola had her flower garden laid off, so as to adjoin Lottie’s, and they were only separated by a clean gravel walk. Those two devoted friends would often seat themselves on a rustic bench in the garden, spending long hours watching the two little children as they frolicked like young lambs on the green turf of the lawn.
“Viola,” said Lottie, “I think your boy has a disposition very much like brother Harry’s used to be.”