No one believed that death was near, certainly not Mrs. Harding or the physicians. Always devoted, she sat at his bedside, happy that he was interested in being entertained. She was reading Sam Blythe’s summary of him and his administration, “A Calm Review of a Calm Man.” Apparently comfortable and free from pain, and enjoying the sound of her loved voice, appreciating, no one knows how deeply, the words of commendation of his efforts from a writer of authority, he murmured when she hesitated: “That’s good; go on, read some more.” As she picked up the magazine again, he threw up his hand, perhaps to ward off the swift blow of the Grim Reaper he felt coming, and, with a sigh, he was gone--the valiant spirit had flown--the splendid, vigorous body lay limp--but an empty shell. While Mrs. Harding rushed for help, she knew all too well that it was too late--her husband was dead. A shocked and grief-stricken group of relatives, Cabinet members, officials, and friends quickly assembled and were rallied to the necessities of the hour by the heart-broken wife, who had never failed Warren Harding in life and would not let herself fail him in death. Upheld by the marvellous will power that had characterized her life, though prostrated by her sorrow, she reassured her pitying friends: “I will not fail--I will not break down.” No one can imagine how she went through the formalities and services in the hotel, calm and controlled; how she endured the long, weary, sorrowful journey to Washington in the car beside the bier of her husband, the return to the White House--there to stand by the casket in the East Room and then calmly and quietly to go through the solemn scenes at the Capitol, with the oversight in the evening that compelled her to ask the hospitality of a friend’s car to take her to the train--the journey to Marion, the scene of her childhood, her romance, her happy wifehood, business life, political triumphs, past the little home where she had been married, to the home of her aged father-in-law. Then she greeted the officials who had journeyed many hours and miles to pay final honours to Marion’s great man, and, still controlled and composed, she participated in the last rites that returned her husband to the dust whence he came. Even greater courage was required to turn her face to Washington, once more to endure the fatigue of another journey, and to remove their belongings from the White House and make room for their successors. After ten days of heartbreaking residence in the great mansion, where she lived alone, she slipped out of the city in a dismal downpour at dusk with the saddest part of life yet before her. In all this time, never once did she utter a plea for herself. With super-courage she filled her rôle as she felt her husband would expect her to fill it. But the effort was too great. Mrs. Harding lived but a year and a half after her husband’s death. She died November 21, 1924. * * * * *