The winter of 1902, the greater part of which we spent in Cincinnati, is memorable only as a period of bereavement and protracted illnesses. Perhaps such a record has no place in a narrative wherein it is my wish to dwell on pleasant memories only, or, at least, to touch as lightly as possible upon those incidents which, for one's peace, may better be forgotten, but a whole winter filled with grief and worry is not so easily torn from the leaves of the calendar rolled back.
In the first place, when I left Manila in December, 1901, I was very near to a nervous breakdown. This was due to the long strain of a peculiarly exacting official life in a trying climate, and an added weight of uneasiness about my husband's illness.
Then, too, my mother was very ill. She had suffered a stroke of paralysis the year before from which she had never rallied and I was extremely anxious to be with her in Cincinnati.
When we arrived in San Francisco a terrible mid-winter storm was sweeping the country from one end to the other and we were strongly advised to delay our trip across the continent, but we were both eager to go on so we started East at once over the Union Pacific.
When we passed Ogden we found ourselves in the midst of the worst blizzard I ever saw. The snow piled up ahead of us, delaying us hour by hour; the bitter wind fairly shook the heavy train; and to turn mere discomfort into misery the water pipes in the cars froze solid and we were left without heat of any kind.
There was nothing to do but to go to bed; but even so, with all the blankets available piled on top of us, we shivered through interminable hours while the
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