ied
by an attendant, and took the chair, but she was so much exhausted by
the effort that her nurse easily persuaded her to come away. During
the following four weeks her prostration and decline were steady.

As the final day of her human infirmity approached, she expressed to
the close friend who sat beside her a timid shrinking, common to all
human nature, from the passage out of this life. It may be counted a
special mercy that, as it afterwards proved, she need not have had any
disquietude concerning the inevitable moment, for a few hours before
the closing scene she fell into a state of coma, and passed beyond so
quietly and tranquilly that she did not herself know when the moment
came. She entered the world of infinite repose in the forenoon of
December 23, 1901.

The funeral service was held in the Church of the Transfiguration,
Mrs. Croly's friends gathering from far and near to pay their last
tributes of love and regard. The women's clubs and societies of
Manhattan, Brooklyn, and the suburbs, were represented in large
numbers, and every seat in the church was filled.

Mrs. Croly lies at rest beside her husband, David G. Croly, in the
beautiful cemetery near Lakewood, New Jersey.

"Yon's her step ... an' she's carryin' a licht in her hand; a see it
through the door."

From Caroline M. Morse

As Chairman of the Memorial Committee it is my privilege to add my
memories of Mrs. Croly to those which have preceded. Mine are not of
her club interests, nor of her identification with the woman's club
movement. So much has been written, and so well, regarding these
public phases of her life that it would seem almost officious for me
to add a stone to the already piled up cairn; I write rather of my
friend as my family knew her in her home, surrounded by husband and
children.

It was in 1880 that we first knew Mr. and Mrs. Croly, and the
acquaintance soon became an intimacy that lasted for twenty-three
years. They were living in their own house in Seventy-first street, an
artistically furnished house, an ideal home full of a sweet
domesticity.

Intimate as we were it was frequently our privilege to gather with the
family at their Sunday evening supper, when Mrs. Croly was as
completely the "house-mother" fulfilling the homely duties of the
table, as, an hour later, she was the gracious, though more formal
hostess receiving in her drawing-room the usual Sunday night throng of
old friends and the stranger