Mr. Stockton was permitted to enjoy this beautiful place only three years.  They were years of such rare pleasure, however, that we can rejoice that he had so much joy crowded into so short a space of his life, and that he had it at its close.  Truly life was never sweeter to him than at its end, and the world was never brighter to him than when he shut his eyes upon it.  He was returning from a winter in New York to his beloved Claymont, in good health, and full of plans for the summer and for his garden, when he was taken suddenly ill in Washington, and died three days later, on April 20, 1902, a few weeks after Kate Bonnet was published in book form.

Mr. Stockton passed away at a ripe age—­sixty-eight years.  And yet his death was a surprise to us all.  He had never been in better health, apparently; his brain was as active as ever; life was dear to him; he seemed much younger than he was.  He had no wish to give up his work; no thought of old age; no mental decay.  His last novels, his last short stories, showed no falling-off.  They were the equals of those written in younger years.  Nor had he lost the public interest.  He was always sure of an audience, and his work commanded a higher price at the last than ever before.  His was truly a passing away.  He gently glided from the homes he had loved to prepare here to one already prepared for him in heaven, unconscious that he was entering one more beautiful than even he had ever imagined.

Mr. Stockton was the most lovable of men.  He shed happiness all around him, not from conscious effort but out of his own bountiful and loving nature.  His tender heart sympathized with the sad and unfortunate, but he never allowed sadness to be near, if it were possible to prevent it.  He hated mourning and gloom.  They seemed to paralyze him mentally until his bright spirit had again asserted itself, and he had recovered his balance.  He usually looked either upon the best, or the humorous side of life.  Pie won the love of every one who knew him—­even that of readers who did not know him personally, as many letters testify.  To his friends his loss is irreparable, for never again will they find his equal in such charming qualities of head and heart.

[Illustration:  The upper terraces of Mr. Stockton’s garden at Claymont.]

This is not the place for a critical estimate of the work of Frank R. Stockton.[2] His stories are, in great part, a reflex of himself.  The bright outlook on life; the courageous spirit; the helpfulness; the sense of the comic rather than the tragic; the love of domestic life; the sweetness of pure affection; live in his books as they lived in himself.  He had not the heart to make his stories end unhappily.  He knew that there is much of the tragic in human lives, but he chose to ignore it as far as possible, and to walk in the pleasant ways which are numerous in this tangled world.  There is much philosophy underlying a good deal that he wrote, but it has to be looked for; it is not insistent, and is never morbid.  He could not write an impure word, or express an impure thought, for he belonged to the “pure in heart,” who, we are assured, “shall see God.”