"All your troubles came to you because you were true to the highest. You asked only the highest from me, and the highest was more than I could give. But be kind to my memory. Try to forget what is best forgotten, but remember what is worth remembering. Judge me for what I was; but judge me also for what I wished to be. Teach my son to honor my name; and when he is old enough to understand, tell him the truth about his father. Tell him what it was that saddened our lives. As he looks into his mother's face, it will steady him." He put both arms around her neck. "I am tired of it all," he said. "I want rest. Love has been more cruel to me than death." A few days later, an afternoon of the same autumnal stillness, they bore him across his threshold with that gentleness which so often comes too late--slowly through his many-colored woods, some leaves drifting down upon the sable plumes and lodging in them---along the turnpike lined with dusty thistles--through the watching town, a long procession, to the place of the unreturning. They laid him along with his fathers.