McKinley had built for himself throughout both the civilized and the uncivilized world.
And then they carried him home—to Canton, which had known him so well from the days when he had hung out his sign as a struggling young lawyer—to Ohio, which had honored him as its representative in Congress, as governor, and which had wished him so well as President. As the funeral train entered the borders of the state, all labor was suspended, church bells tolled, and even the smallest hamlet poured forth its citizens to watch that last sad journey with clasped hands and bowed heads. Thus were his mortal remains received by those who knew him best of all, those among whom he had lived and worked since his birth.
And now that saddest hour in which every funeral, be it of high born or of low, must have its ending. The Nation had given up her son that last night to the widow who so loved him and who had so suddenly been deprived of his tender, loving support. Now was come the day when the remains were to be consigned to their last resting-place, and again the streets were
