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shower. But he had looked forward with peculiar pleasure 
to a meeting of his college classmates in celebration of the 
twentieth anniversary of their graduation ; and he managed 
to pursue his original plan, and reached New Haven in time 
for the meeting. But the delicate instrument had been too 
much shattered to recover its tone, and its music was to be 
heard no longer. He suffered severely on the journey, and 
on being assisted into the well-remembered house where his 
mother was awaiting him, had only strength to say, “ O, how 
good it is to be at home.” His mother pressed forward to 
meet him, and he added those words, which to our ears seem 
so full of pathos: “ Mother, I am worn out.” 
And so indeed it proved. To the physician who was in- 
stantly summoned, he only said: “ Doctor, help me to a little 
strength to meet my class to-morrow night, and then I will 
give up.” But even this gratification was denied him, and 
the affectionate greeting that he sent his classmates was al- 
Most his last earthly utterance. Gradually, but surely, he 
sank away ; but who could have wished for him a happier 
dismissal? Soothed by familiar voices and pleasant images, 
tended as in his infancy by his mother, surrounded by loving 
faces, the worn-out man may have felt himself a weary child 
again ; and with a childlike confidence he went to rest, on 
Sunday morning, August 16, — waking, we may be sure, to 
exclaim once more, “ How good it is to be at home.” A 
day or two afterward his mortal part was laid in the quiet 
cemetery near us, where, two years before, that very week, 
he had seen his father laid. 
“ Sleep sweetly, tender heart, in peace; 
Sleep, holy spirit, blessed soul, 
While the stars burn, the moons increase, 
the great ages onward roll. 
“ Sleep till the end, true soul and sweet, 
ing comes to thee new or strange; 
