ible. On my way home from the field, I made a much longer visit to 

 Chicago, but my pleasure was sadly marred by a distressing illness. 



My uncle. Colonel Stockton, found himself unable to struggle any 

 longer with the load of debt which he had inherited with Morven and 

 the place had to be sold. Happily, it did not go out of the family, for 

 Dr. Shields bought it for his son-in-law. Bayard Stockton, with whom 

 he continued to live, and entailed the property on his grandsons. The 

 large area of ground between Morven and Bayard Lane was sold to 

 the Princeton Inn (now Miss Fine's School) one of the unfortunate 

 hotel enterprises of which we have seen so many. A license to sell alco- 

 holic beverages was regarded as vital to the success of the new enter- 

 prise and the law required that the application should be signed by 

 the property owners within a certain radius, and my Mother was greatly 

 distressed by the notoriety which her signature brought her. For reasons 

 unknown to me, the fanatics fell upon this project with passionate 

 rage, though what they saw in it different from any other hotel, I can- 

 not imagine. 



Because of the new Inn, another savage attack was launched against 

 the College, though, I believe, this one did us no great damage. My 

 Mother received several letters, all from strangers, some of them abusive, 

 others merely reproachful, asking how she could be guilty of such 

 wickedness. A lighter touch was given by Lawrence Hutton, who re- 

 marked to Dr. Richardson, the chief librarian: "Morven is progressing, 

 last century it contained but a single Signer, now it shelters two." (Dr. 

 Shields and Mr. Stockton had both signed the Inn's application.) "Yes, 

 that is true," replied Richardson, "but then they signed for liberty, 

 now they are signing for license." 



In March 1894, twins were born to us, our second son, Hugh Lenox II, 

 and fourth daughter, Sarah Post. The boy, though a healthy, sturdy 

 baby, lived but a few weeks, when an attack of bronchitis swept him 

 away and again we had to face the devastating grief of losing a child. 



Our dear old Dr. McCosh died the following November. He had 

 begun to fail both mentally and physically, as John Alexander's portrait 

 of him distinctly shows. Shortly before his death, Sloane, who had gone 

 to see him, had a terrible struggle with him, to keep him from going 

 downstairs, for the old man still kept something of his great muscular 

 strength. When, at last, he was put back to bed, he smiled and said: 

 "Well, I gave ye a tussle, didn't I?" The reminiscences of Dr. McCosh 

 which are scattered through these pages form the best portrait of him 

 that I can make. That I admired and loved him and thought him a 



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