e could play "Home, Sweet Home," although Worthington had
brought the notes with him. However, after the disinterment, of which
Worthington was a witness, the body was placed in the chapel of the
little English church, and a few Americans and English reverently
gathered there, while Mrs. Worthington, who was known as "Cooperstown's
sweetest singer," sang touchingly the famous song of home, written by
the man who had no home during the last forty years of his life, and
whose body, thirty years after his death, was going home at last to be
interred in its native soil.

While traveling in Egypt, Worthington had an audience with the Khedive,
Tewfik Pasha Mohammed, in his palace on the Nile. The conversation was
formal and perfunctory, until, in reply to an amiable inquiry,
Worthington stated that his home was in a village, in New York State,
named Cooperstown. At the mention of this name the Khedive exhibited
genuine interest.

"Cooperstown," he repeated, "Is not Cooperstown the home of Fenimore
Cooper, the great author?"

It was now Worthington's turn to exhibit interest, for in boyhood he had
been next door neighbor to Cooper; and he asked if his Highness was
acquainted with the writings of the novelist. The Khedive had read all
of Cooper's books. Some of them he cared little for, but those he did
care for he loved. _The Leather-Stocking Tales_ had opened a new world
to him, and he was charmed. _The Deerslayer_ he "adored." The sublime
and shadowy forests, the silent lakes high up in evergreen hills, the
cool rivers--how they captivated his imagination! how they invited his
soul! He would, he exclaimed, give a year of his life if he might view
the Glimmerglass, if he might tread a forest trail. In his library the
Khedive showed to his visitor, with evident satisfaction, his three
magnificent sets of Cooper's works, in French, in German, and in
English.

John Worthington's later days were passed in Cooperstown, where he lived
to be the village man of letters, delighting his contemporaries with
contributions of picturesque prose and graceful verse that would have
given him a wider renown had he written otherwise than, as it seemed,
for the mere pleasure of writing for the entertainment of his friends.
His twelve years of service at Malta, with many excursions in the
ancient world, developed in him an oriental color of mind, and gave even
to the Otsego of his childhood, when he returned hither to live, the
dreamy glamou