Blessed is the memory of an old-fashioned mother. It floats to us now like beautiful perfume of some woodland blossoms. The music of other voices may be lost, but the entrancing memory of hers will echo in our soul forever. Other faces will fade away and be forgotten, but hers will shine on until the light from Heaven’s portal shall glorify our own. When in the fitful pauses of busy life our feet wander back to the old homestead, and, crossing the well-worn threshold, stand once more in the low, quaint room, so hallowed by her presence, how the feeling of childish innocence and dependence comes over us, and we kneel down in the molten sunshine streaming through the western window, just where long years ago we knelt by our mother’s knee lisping, “Our Father.” How many times, when the tempter lured us on, has the memory of those sacred hours, that mother’s words, her faith and prayers, saved us from plunging into an abyss of sin. Years have filled great drifts between her and us, but they have not hidden from our sight the glory of her pure, unselfish love.