"Then I explained why my old house wasn't in his paper. I told him it wasn't often that we got ahead of reporters. But I thought I had succeeded pretty well with that one."

General Sheridan's last residence, and the one in which he died, will make historic the exquisite seaside summer village in which it stands. Nonquit stands on the shore of Buzzard's Bay, Massachusetts, seven miles below New Bedford, the once famous whaling port of the United States. It looks over that lovely summer sea, which is dotted by Martha's Vineyard and Nantucket islands, besides other smaller ones, and is sheltered somewhat from the easterly wind by the sickleshaped peninsula of Cape Cod. To reach it one passes by the entrance to the island-dotted waters and picturesque hilled shores of Narragansett Bay, at whose portals stands the historic Rhode Island, and whose shores are the famed Providence Plantations that Roger Williams founded. It is a region as lovely as any section of our Atlantic coast, and reminds one in petto of the beautiful St. Lawrence, and its Thousand Islands.

The Sheridans purchased land at Nonquit in 1SS7, and the general at once ordered the construction of the handsome cottage residence which he was to inhabit only in a dying state; to and from which he was borne dying and dead, surrounded by the loving watchfulness of his family and the generous care of the Nation he served so well. The bereaved family still use it as a summer residence.

The seaside hamlet of Nonquit is very small. But it is as socially select as it is lovely in its natural aspects. Doubtless the choice of this point as a summer residence was due to the fact that army and Chicago friends were both interested. The little village stands on a gentle slope almost entirely bare of trees, and is composed of cottages. situated at short distances apart, and without fences to mark the dividing lines. Nonquit was founded something more than fifteen years ago by a syndicate of eastern capitalists who bought half a dozen large farms on Buzzard's Bay shore below Paden-Aran. They built a hotel and a number of cottages, and disposed of lots to well-known families for building purposes. The place has thus become a favorite and somewhat exclusive social summer resort. R. Swain Gifford, the artist, has a charming home there, and Louisa M. Alcott, the author, was also a sojourner at Nonquit for several seasons. General Sheridan went there in the summer of 1887, rented a cottage, and took such a liking to the place that he decided to make it his summer home, so he built the handsome cottage to which he was carried in July, 18SS. It is roomy, very cheerful, and presents a pretty architectural effect.

Like Mount McGregor, where Grant died, Nonquit, before unknown, will become sadly famous. It will always be recalled by the story of that fateful August 5th, when from the window of the east room in which he lay, Philip Henry Sheridan took that last long, lingering look over the summer sea that softly swelled before his eyes. The ocean has been by many poets treated as the emblem of Eternity. Unmastered by man, it flows on forever. Who can say what thoughts entered the brain of the dying hero, what pictures of the past and future were imprinted on the retina of his brain, as he gazed with wistful, absorbing, imaginative look for the last time on the lovely marine scene before him?

With such sad memories freighted, Nonquit has become famous. The old name" Barekneed" has been preserved in a charming painting by the famous marine artist, R. Swain Gifford, who has placed on

his canvas the romantic cliff near the Sheridan cottage, the neighboring beach, and a wide expanse of the waters that make the picturesque stretch of Buzzard's Bay. This painting has been given the old name. The little lyric here given was written at Nonquit, and seems to have caught in its musical numbers the brooding calm and beauty of the scenes amid which our hero has gone to his eternal rest:

"Soft is the swell of the musical sea,

As ripple by ripple, and wave by wave,
It rises and falls on the sandy lea,

And the high, bold rocks its waters lave.

"Nothing is heard but the rising tide,

And the winds that sweep o'er the bay's rough breast;
The distant ships o'er the white foam glide

And the nearer ones at anchor rest.

"Peaceful and calm is the beautiful scene,

This wave-washed spot on the sandy shore;

Myriads of ages shall intervene,

And these waves will dash, as they dashed of yore.

"The nations will live out their fitful life;
The swell of humanity rise and fall;
Oblivion brood o'er the world's wild strife;
Empires emerge from their weary thrall.

"But these waves of the bay will still roll on,
These rocks resist with defiant will;

A thousand years will have come and gone,

But the sea shall ring out its brave notes still."

CHAPTER XXIX.

HIS DEATH-BED AND THE RETURN TO WASHINGTON.

SAD SCENES AT NONQUIT -THE GENERAL'S DEATH-GRIEF OF THE FAMILY

WHAT THE DOCTORS SAIDA SIMPLE MILITARY FUNERAL DECIDED UPON - SHERIDAN IN HIS CASKET REMOVAL TO WASHINGTON— PASSAGE FROM NEW BEDFORD TO NEW YORK-THE VETERANS OF THE PENNSYLVANIA ROAD IN SILENT RESPECT ALONG THE ROUTE- ARRIVAL AT WASHINGTON.

A LOVELY August day at Nonquit closed, ere midnight, in the presence of life's mightiest tragedy — the death of a strong man in the high meridian of life, with the loved of his heart and home bewailing their terrible loss. That Sabbath—the fifth day of the month—was exquisite as it brooded peacefully over lovely Nonquit. The breast of the summer sea was barely ruffled and rippled by the languid breath of the summer wind. In that pretty cottage to which so much of solicitous hope was turned, its famous inmate lay drowsily on his cot, in deadly weakness, at times looking from the great bay window eastward over the unclouded waters. Yet there was hope that day. The chief consulting physician, Dr. Pepper, had lifted the Sheridan household with his cheering diagnosis of the patient's condition. As the sun went down, the busy pens of the pressmen, and the busy fingers of the telegrapher pressing his operating key, were telling all over the broad land that there was "hope for Sheridan yet." The slow step of the saddened wife and mother was a little lighter as it moved to and fro. The children, happily, almost unconscious, except the eldest girl, were allowed to play about the pleasant hotel. The black-robed sisters who had so carefully nursed the dying soldier, began to indulge in a little hope. Every one felt the effect of Dr. Pepper's cheering examination. And so the sun went down. The brief twilight of the New England coast passed into the soft and fragrant darkness of its earlier night hours.

There came a change as the evening closed. Klien, the general's faithful servant, who had been with him for many years, entered the general's room, with his usual purpose of attending to the comfort of his chief before he himself retired for the night. No one had any serious fears, but rather the contrary.

Mrs. Sheridan was attending the children on their retiring for the night, when Klien found the general breathing heavily. That stertorous sound was one of grave danger. Doctors O'Reilly and Mathews, his faithful army comrades and surgeons, were notified. What they saw brought the gravest of anxiety. They felt the gates of death were opening wide. Everything was done and at once. Mrs. Sheridan was called. His brother - absent briefly at the hotel was hastily notified by Klien.

The soldier was nearing his end. The change occurred suddenly. When the heavy breathing was first heard, he was lying partially on one side, and the sister who had been in constant attendance did not notice anything wrong. It had been the practice of the physicians to frequently apply the fingers to the pulse, and Dr. O'Reilly usually did this. To his horror he now discovered great weakness and frequent intermissions. The first step taken was to administer ammonia. This stimulant was powerless to produce a change in the heart's action. Digitalis was then injected hypodermically. Still the life current coursing through the artery at the wrist remained weak. Then it grew weaker and weaker. Sinapis was applied to the chest and limbs, and finally the galvanic battery was brought out and a current steadily increasing in strength was directed along the spine and through the chest of the now nearly unconscious form of the general.

The end was near, but it was peaceful. There was but little physical suffering, apparently, until within the last few minutes. Mrs. Sheridan was not greatly alarmed, and she expected a reaction from the syncope. Quietly, like a child going to slumber, the gallant soldier fell into the long sleep. The great heart ceased to beat, and Philip Henry Sheridan was dead. The little children were slumbering in their beds. Only the wife and mother with one of the sisters was present, besides the physicians. The scene at the bedside was impressive, but free from striking incidents. During the first part of the attack General Sheridan did not realize his condition. But he became aware of the impending doom before his wife appreciated the danger. He spoke of his children once in faint tones, and his manner impressed Mrs. Sheridan for the