aid, after expressing his deep
satisfaction with Doctor Barton's morning sermon, and his
interpretation of the atonement, that he regarded Christ's life as the
highest exhibition of service. By his willing death on the cross,
Jesus showed himself the greatest and best of all servants of man,
while thus joyfully doing his Father's will. On that day of rest,
Carleton seemed to dwell in an almost transfigurating atmosphere of
delight in his Master.

On Sunday night husband and wife enjoyed a quiet hour, hand in hand,
before the wood fire. The sunlight and warmth of years gone by, coined
into stick and fagots from the forest, were released again in glow and
warmth, making playful lights and warning shadows. The golden minutes
passed by. The prattle of lovers and the sober wisdom of experience
blended. Then, night's oblivion. Again, the cheerful morning meal and
the merry company, the incense of worship, and the separation of each
and all to the day's toil.

Carleton sat down in his study room to write. He soon called his wife,
complaining of a distressing pain in his stomach. He was advised to go
to bed, and did so. The physician, Dr. A. L. Kennedy, was sent for.
"How is your head?" asked Doctor Kennedy.

"If it were not for this pain, I should get up and write," answered
Carleton.

With the consent of the physician he rose from the couch and walked
the room for awhile for relief. Then returning, as he was about to lie
down again, he fell over. Quickly unconscious, he passed away. Science
would call the immediate cause of death apoplexy.

Thus died at his post, as he would have wished, the great war
correspondent, traveller, author, statesman, and friend of man and
God. He had lived nearly three years beyond the allotted period of
three score and ten.

Two days later, while the flag over the public schoolhouse in
Brookline drooped at half-mast, and Carleton's picture was wreathed
with laurels, at the request of the scholars themselves, in the
impressive auditorium of Shawmut Church, Carleton's body lay amid
palms and lilies in the space fronting the pulpit. At his head and at
his feet stood a veteran-sentinel from the John A. Andrew Post of the
Grand Army of the Republic. These were relieved every quarter of an
hour, during the exercises, by comrades who had been detailed for a
service which they were proud to render to one who had so well told
their story and honored them so highly. It was entirely a voluntary
off