On the 21st of March, 1916, Richard and his wife and
daughter moved from the Scribner cottage to Crossroads, and a
few days later he was attacked by the illness that ended in
his death on April 11. He had dined with his wife and
afterward had worked on an article on preparedness, written
some letters and telegrams concerning the same subject and,
while repeating one of the latter over the telephone, was
stricken. Within a week of his fifty-third year, just one
year from the day he had first brought his baby daughter to
her real home, doing the best and finest work of his career in
the cause of the Allies and preparedness, quite unconscious
that the end was near, he left us. In those fifty-two years
he had crowded the work, the pleasures, the kind, chivalrous
deeds of many men, and he died just as I am sure he would have
wished to die, working into the night for a great cause, and
although ill and tired, still fretful for the morning that he
might again take up the fight.
