Last night I seemed to be in a small prayer or social meeting, perhaps in Wilton. A speaker had just finished and Professor T.B.T. began to say something about our Puritan forefathers. He did not rise. He uttered one complete sentence and began another, but suddenly his voice weakened, he stammered and was still. He slipped down in his chair and people gathered round him, shutting him from my sight. I heard him gasp feebly, then there was a long painful pause. "Campie" pronounced the benediction. As we passed out, I had a glimpse of the professor laid in a Morris chair. "He's dead, isn't he?" I asked. "Yes," replied someone.