And my husband turned and walked quietly out of the room, to make his report to me, who, anxious and foreboding, was awaiting him. At the lifting of “Old John’s” hand I burst into tears. Ah! I thought, he needed no man’s help to lift that brawny right hand of his when he swore allegiance to the Constitution of the United States, or later when he took the solemn oath that made him a soldier under that beloved flag, beneath whose folds he now lay, old and broken! And even as the thought passed through my mind, a handful of pebbles came dashing against the window. We both sprang forward, and looking down we saw the terrified face of the gardener, gleaming white in the moonlight! In his fright he babbled Scandinavian to us, but finally dragged from his unwilling throat one English word, “Come! come!” My husband rushed with him down to the sick-room, and at the moment of their entrance found everything so precisely as he had left it that he felt angry at the man’s stupid fright. But before he could speak, three shadowy, gray forms slipped from the room, and the dog rose slowly, giving him a sullen, threatening look, then turned, and resting his heavy jaws on the foot of the bed, he lifted his great voice in one long, dismal howl, and dropped to his place again upon the floor, where he lay half growling, half groaning. Fearing that such a noise would disturb the sick man, my husband hurried to the bedside, and, laying his hand upon “Old John’s” head, he stood dumfounded, for from the body he touched life had flown! It seemed incredible, for he had never moved. His hand lay on his breast just as it had been placed there. His face wore the same look of contentment that had come to it when he had said he wished “for nothing in the world, sir,” and later, when he had added, “Good-night, sir!” having, at the same time, bidden “good-night” to life and the world. So, surrounded by the tender care of the family he adored--in his bed--under the same roof that sheltered the horses he had loved--beneath the great flag he reverenced--with his dog at his feet--quiet, peaceful, dignified, such was the passing of John Hickey, coachman. We covered him with flowers. Nothing was too good to be offered in this last gift to the man who had walked so far with us along life’s highway. I had already ordered mass to be said for him. And then I paid him my last visit. I went alone, and talked to him, as foolish women will talk to their dead, and told him how and why I missed sending for the priest, and while I looked at him, I noticed for the first time what a fine head he had, the clearness of his profile, and above all, the calm dignity of his expression. Slowly, like music, there rolled through my memory certain words of Holy Writ: “He raiseth up the poor out of the dust, and lifteth the needy out of the dunghill; that He may set him with princes, even with the princes of his people.”