more occupied with affairs than ever before, and the writing of these
memoirs was reserved for his play-time in Scotland. For a few weeks
each summer we retired to our little bungalow on the moors at
Aultnagar to enjoy the simple life, and it was there that Mr. Carnegie
did most of his writing. He delighted in going back to those early
times, and as he wrote he lived them all over again. He was thus
engaged in July, 1914, when the war clouds began to gather, and when
the fateful news of the 4th of August reached us, we immediately left
our retreat in the hills and returned to Skibo to be more in touch
with the situation.

These memoirs ended at that time. Henceforth he was never able to
interest himself in private affairs. Many times he made the attempt to
continue writing, but found it useless. Until then he had lived the
life of a man in middle life--and a young one at that--golfing,
fishing, swimming each day, sometimes doing all three in one day.
Optimist as he always was and tried to be, even in the face of the
failure of his hopes, the world disaster was too much. His heart was
broken. A severe attack of influenza followed by two serious attacks
of pneumonia precipitated old age upon him.

It was said of a contemporary who passed away a few months before Mr.
Carnegie that "he never could have borne the burden of old age."
Perhaps the most inspiring part of Mr. Carnegie's life, to those who
were privileged to know it intimately, was the way he bore his "burden
of old age." Always patient, considerate, cheerful, grateful for any
little pleasure or service, never thinking of himself, but always of
the dawning of the better day, his spirit ever shone brighter and
brighter until "he was not, for God took him."