When we arrived in San Francisco a terrible midwinter 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 train creaked and puffed and struggled over the icy tracks.

When we reached Omaha I received a telegram telling me that my mother had died the day before, and I found it no longer possible to brace myself against the inevitable collapse. We hurried on to Cincinnati and arrived in time for my mother’s funeral, but I was too ill to be present. It was two months before I began to recover.