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.