his brain, his hand, his voice, his muscles, his nerves could do no
more. He sleeps in the cemetery of Somerville, N.J., so near his father
and mother that he will face them when he arises in the resurrection of
the just, and, amid a crowd of his kindred now sleeping on the right of
them and on the left of them, will feel the thrill of the trumpet that
wakes the dead.

You could get nothing from my brother at all. Ask him a question to
evoke what he had done for God and the Church, and his lips were as
tightly shut as though they had never been opened. Indeed, his reticence
was at times something remarkable. I took him to see President Grant at
Long Branch, and though they had both been great warriors, the one
fighting the battles of the Lord and the other the battles of his
country, they had little to say, and there was, I thought, at the time,
more silence crowded together than I ever noticed in the same amount of
space before.

But the story of my brother's work has already been told in the Heavens
by those who, through his instrumentality, have already reached the City
of Raptures. However, his chief work is yet to come. We get our
chronology so twisted that we come to believe that the white marble of
the tomb is the milestone at which the good man stops, when it is only a
milestone on a journey, the most of the miles of which are yet to be
travelled. The Chinese Dictionary which my brother prepared during more
than two decades of study; the religious literature he transferred from
English into Chinese; the hymns he wrote for others to sing, although he
himself could not sing at all (he and I monopolising the musical
incapacity of a family in which all the rest could sing well); the
missionary stations he planted; the life he lived, will widen out and
deepen and intensify through all time and all eternity.