He married in Cleveland, Ohio, and many years passed before I came up with him again.
One day in Whitelaw Reid's den in the Tribune Building he reappeared, strangely changed--no longer the rosy-cheeked, buoyant boy--an overserious, prematurely old man.

I was shocked, and when he had gone Reid, observing this, said: "Oh, Hay will come round all right.

He is just now in one of his moods.

I picked him up in Piccadilly the other day and by sheer force brought him over." When we recall the story of Hay's life--one weird tragedy after another, from the murder of Lincoln to the murder of McKinley, including the tragic end of two members of his immediate family--there rises in spite of the grandeur that pursued him a single exclamation: "The pity of it!" This is accentuated by Henry Adams' Education.

Yet the silent courage with which Hay met disaster after disaster must increase both the sympathy and the respect of those who peruse the melancholy pages of that vivid narrative.