weary marches, he refreshed his parched lips.

In his bed-chamber, with its antique air and quaint garniture, there stood
a bedstead, the fac-simile of the one upon which he died. Here we lingered
long and lovingly, and turned to another department, in one corner of
which stood a harpsichord, once belonging to his niece, Miss Lewis. In
fancy I could see her fairy fingers as they swept in "waves of grace" over
its strings, and with the "concord of sweet sounds" ministered to a circle
of distinguished listeners. I could not resist the impulse to pass my
hands over the long neglected strings, and recalled the sentiment of the
old song,

"As a sweet lute that lingers
In silence alone;
Unswept by light fingers.
Scarce murmurs a tone;
My own heart resembles,
This lute, light and free,
'Til o'er its chord trembles
Sweet memories of thee."

The garden still remained as arranged by his taste and dictation, and at
one corner of the house the magnolia tree, planted by his own hand, still
bloomed in fragrant beauty.

In the yard was the old well, with "its moss-covered, iron-bound bucket,"
and at the door the gray-haired negro, the inevitable servant of "Massa
Washington," who will doubtless, like a wandering Jew, out live all time,
and for centuries to come remain an attaché of our country's father.