Others saw something of the doctor’s own heroic spirit in that figure, with the broken sword in the drooping right hand, and the left arm still held aloft as if the dying warrior challenged even death--“_Moriturus, te saluto!_” The last active labor of Dr. Trudeau was the writing of his autobiography, and perhaps the last service of the writer on behalf of the beloved physician was the proof-reading of its pages. The doctor was seized with his mortal illness just after the last pages were written and before he had decided upon a title for his work. The single word, “Aquiescence,” was proposed as descriptive of the life of a man who accepted adverse conditions and, like the master of a ship, turned the ill wind to advantage. The word was taken from a sentence which he had once written to me, “The conquest of Fate comes not by rebellious struggle, but by acquiescence.” When the title was suggested to the doctor, he was unable to speak, but smiled and shook his head. Later, when he was a little better, he dictated to his secretary, “If the world finds a sermon in my life-story--good; but I don’t want any one to think I was trying to preach one.” Possibly the impression has been given in these pages that Trudeau was an approachable person. He was, to some; to many he was quite unapproachable, especially interviewers. He feared a scribe. To the present writer he repeatedly said, “Remember--I trust you; but don’t you ever publish what I’m telling you until after I am where I won’t care what the world says about me.” Even to his most intimate friends he was difficult of approach when, after “studying the ceiling” for many long days, he was irritated beyond human self-control by his sufferings. But even then he could be played like a fine instrument if the player had technique. If the doctor was in that depth of depression out of which he would chant a “De Profundis” of blackest pessimism, all that was necessary was to agree with him that life was “a senseless business”; whereupon he would draw his sword of optimism and flash the text engraven upon its bright blade: “O ye of little faith!” But if you told him he looked well and you hoped he felt so, he would say, “I don’t. I’m utterly miserable!” and sink back in his invalid’s chair with a smile that seemed to add, “There’s little sport in an easy game.” Characteristic of the man’s philosophy was his own comment on his fits of melancholy, vouchsafed once to a fellow sufferer who had been in depths of depression: “If you go down to the depths at times, you have many glimpses of higher things that people of more even temperament never get; and after all, the ideal is the beautiful in life; the facts of life are hideous.”