CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT 



But the joy of my successful summer in Japan was 

 soon turned to deepest mourning. At Honolulu I 

 received a letter from Mrs. Jordan saying that 

 Barbara was ill with scarlet fever — very disquieting 

 news as I remembered the treacherous nature of that 

 malady, so often followed by insidious sequels. 

 Arrived at Angel Island quarantine station, I found 

 myself treated with unusual consideration by the 

 officials, who furnished a special launch to take me 

 to San Francisco. I was now joined by a friendly 

 physician from our neighborhood, who, when we 

 reached the city, informed me that Barbara was dead ! 

 This was the most crushing blow that ever befell 

 my wife or me; the brightest light had gone out of 

 our lives. As I write today after twenty years, the 

 wound seems as deep as yesterday. Barbara was our J child 

 joy and hope, for she united all that was finest in her "f^^^^^ 



1 111 • '1 r 1 ^ promise 



mother and the best m me, without any of the dross. 

 She had Jessie's dark eyes, fine features, and warm 

 coloring, her quick apprehension, critical mind, and 

 delight in all lovely things. From me she inherited 

 in full measure the power of immediate and accurate 

 grasp of details in Natural History, and although no 

 special effort was made to teach her, she knew all 

 the land birds of California, and had in one way or 

 another gathered a choice collection of skins. At 

 the same time, recognizing my pleasure in her bent 

 for nature study, it pleased her to feel that in other 

 ways also we were very close. "I understand all of 



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