It was upon the occasion of this last-named visit to the White House that I showed Mr. Harding the picture of Elizabeth Ann's "rescue" which had appeared in the Hearst paper in Chicago. I remember we were sitting at his desk, and I can just see his face twitch and the impatient gestures of his hands as he laid the picture upon his desk.
"Oh, Nan, why did you allow it? Why did you allow it?" he exclaimed over and over. I failed to see why it should cause him so much distress, and said so frankly. However, I told him in the same breath that I tried to stop them. I wondered as I looked with him again at the picture whether the headlines immediately above, which referred to another column and read, "Intimate Chat at White House," added to his disconcertion in seeing his daughter's picture below. When I asked him he did not reply; he only shook his head, his expression betraying the perturbation he felt.
However, he had the happy ability to come out of things, and he picked up the picture and looked at it again. This time he studied it and a slow smile lit his face. It was Warren Harding, the man, the father, who spoke next.
"Really, Nan, she's much like you!" he said softly, as he folded up the picture and handed it back to me. "Oh, darling, she's much more like you!" I insisted. "Why, just look at her eyes!" I exclaimed, holding the picture up again for us both to look at. He smiled and nodded acknowledgment of the resemblance so strikingly caught by the Hearst cameraman. "Well, if she's as sweet a baby as her mother is a woman . . ." Mr. Harding concluded, leaving his desk and walking over to the leather couch, where he was evidently not intending to sit alone.
This was on Sunday morning. A tall vase with pink roses stood upon his desk, in memory of his mother. Mr. Harding himself was dressed for church, and, as we dropped down to-
