f several
seasons of such work told on his health. A serious illness followed, and
afterward he was troubled with an increasing lameness--the first real
warning of the end.

In spite of his weakness, he decided on another trip to America, and
here, in 1867, he began a series of readings which left him in a far
worse condition. Often at the close of an evening he would become so
faint that he would have to lie down. He was unable to sleep and his
appetite entirely failed him. Yet his wonderful determination and energy
made him able to complete the task. A great banquet of farewell was
given to him in New York and he returned to England bearing the
admiration and love of the whole American people.

Before leaving England he had promised to give one other course of
readings there, and this promise, after a summer's quiet at home, he
attempted to fulfil. But he was too ill. He found himself for the first
time in his life feeling, as he said, "giddy, jarred, shaken, faint,
uncertain of voice and sight, and tread and touch, and dull of spirit."
He was obliged to discontinue the course and to rest.

This summer of 1869--the last summer of his life--was a contented and
even a happy one. At home, at first in London, and later in the house on
Gad's Hill, surrounded by his children and by the friends he loved best,
Dickens lived quietly, working at his last story which his death was to
leave for ever unfinished--The _Mystery of Edwin Drood_. He attempted
one more series of readings, and with their close bade farewell for ever
to his English audience.

He was seen in public but a few times more--once at the last dinner
party he ever attended, to meet the Prince of Wales and the King of the
Belgians, and once when the Queen invited him to Buckingham Palace. Soon
after, the end came.

One day as he entered the house at Gad's Hill, he seemed tired and
silent. As he sat down to dinner all present noticed that he looked very
ill. They begged him to lie down. "Yes, on the ground," he said--these
were the last words he ever uttered--and as he spoke he slipped down
upon the floor.

He never fully recovered consciousness, and next day, June 9, 1870,
Charles Dickens breathed his last. Five days later he was laid to rest
in Westminster Abbey, where are buried so many of the greatest of
England's dead. For days, thousands came to visit the spot, and rich and
poor alike looked upon his grave with tears.

HALLIE ERMINIE RIVES.