ch rare pleasure, however, that we can
rejoice that he had so much joy crowded into so short a space of his
life, and that he had it at its close. Truly life was never sweeter to
him than at its end, and the world was never brighter to him than when
he shut his eyes upon it. He was returning from a winter in New York to
his beloved Claymont, in good health, and full of plans for the summer
and for his garden, when he was taken suddenly ill in Washington, and
died three days later, on April 20, 1902, a few weeks after Kate Bonnet
was published in book form.

Mr. Stockton passed away at a ripe age--sixty-eight years. And yet his
death was a surprise to us all. He had never been in better health,
apparently; his brain was as active as ever; life was dear to him; he
seemed much younger than he was. He had no wish to give up his work; no
thought of old age; no mental decay. His last novels, his last short
stories, showed no falling-off. They were the equals of those written in
younger years. Nor had he lost the public interest. He was always sure
of an audience, and his work commanded a higher price at the last than
ever before. His was truly a passing away. He gently glided from the
homes he had loved to prepare here to one already prepared for him in
heaven, unconscious that he was entering one more beautiful than even he
had ever imagined.

Mr. Stockton was the most lovable of men. He shed happiness all around
him, not from conscious effort but out of his own bountiful and loving
nature. His tender heart sympathized with the sad and unfortunate, but
he never allowed sadness to be near, if it were possible to prevent it.
He hated mourning and gloom. They seemed to paralyze him mentally until
his bright spirit had again asserted itself, and he had recovered his
balance. He usually looked either upon the best, or the humorous side of
life. Pie won the love of every one who knew him--even that of readers
who did not know him personally, as many letters testify. To his friends
his loss is irreparable, for never again will they find his equal in
such charming qualities of head and heart.

[Illustration: THE UPPER TERRACES OF MR. STOCKTON'S GARDEN AT
CLAYMONT.]

This is not the place for a critical estimate of the work of Frank R.
Stockton.[2] His stories are, in great part, a reflex of himself. The
bright outlook on life; the courageous spirit; the helpfulness; the
sense of the comic rather than the tragic; the love of dome