The journey to Washington was a painful one.  Dr. Talmage kept growing worse.  All day long he lay on the couch before me in our drawing-room on the train, saying nothing—­under the constant care of the physician.  Telegrams and letters followed the patient all the way from Mexico to the Capital city.  At every station silent, awe-stricken crowds were gathered to question of the state of the beloved sufferer.  In New Orleans we had to stay over a day, so as to secure accommodation on the train to Washington.  While there many messages of condolence were left at the hotel, a party of ladies calling especially to thank me for the “great care I was taking of their Dr. Talmage.”

On our route to the national city, I remember the Doctor drew me down beside him to speak to me.  He was then extremely weak and his voice was very low:  “Eleanor, I believe this is death,” he said.

The long journey, in which years seemed compressed into days, at last came to a close.  The train pulled up in Washington, and our own physician, Dr. Magruder, met us at the station.  Dr. Talmage was borne into his home in a chair, and upstairs into his bedroom, where already the angel of death had entered to welcome and guard him, though, alas! we knew it not, and still hoped against hope.  Occasional rallies took place; but evidences of cerebral inflammation appeared, and the patient sank into a state of unconsciousness, which was only a prelude to death.  Bulletins were given to the public daily by the attending physicians; and if aught could have assuaged the anguish of such moments it would have been the universal interest and sympathy shown from all parts of the world.

Readers will pardon me if I reproduce from The Christian Herald a record of the last scene.  It is hard “to take down the folded shadows of our bereavement” and hold it even to the gaze of friends.

“After a painful illness, lasting several weeks, America’s best-beloved preacher, the Reverend Thomas DeWitt Talmage, passed from earth to the life above, on April 12th, 1902.  Ever since his return from Mexico, where he was prostrated by a sudden attack which rapidly assumed the form of cerebral congestion, he had lain in the sick chamber of his Washington home, surrounded by his family and cared for by the most skilful physicians.  Each day brought its alternate hopes and fears.  Much of the time was passed in unconsciousness; but there were intervals when, even amid his sufferings, he could speak to and recognise those around him.  No murmur or complaint came from his lips; he bore his suffering bravely, sustained by a Higher Power.  The message had come which sooner or later comes to all, and the aged servant of God was ready to go; he had been ready all his life.