general waiting-room beyond. There was nothing stirring, nothing of note, nothing to attract attention. Of the people about, no one was waiting for anything more than usually occurs on a sunny morning at a railway station. Most of those who were to take the train were already on board. Of those in the room beside the railroad officials, there was a slender, light-complexioned man, about forty years of age, who walked up and down rather nervously, occasionally glancing out of the door in a vacant fashion, as if his mind was bent upon some strangely fascinating picture. picture. This man bore the rather euphonious name of Charles Jules Guiteau, and though he had been noticed by the railroad employés, still his was not a face or figure that would have attracted attention in a crowd. And no one paid any attention to him or his move

ments.

He walked up and down the room without ceasing, as the slow minutes passed away, moving the length of the settees with short irregular steps. He had just reached the end of the room as the President entered arm in arm with his Secretary. Guiteau turned about, set his teeth, and quietly inserted his hand within his pocket. The President passed beyond him, he advanced one step in the same direction, drew a heavy revolver from his pocket, pointed it steadily and fired deliberately at the man he had come to murder.

The President made no sign he was hurt, but

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turned with gentle, yet surprised look to see whence came the murderous bullet. Secretary Blaine sprang to one side, Guiteau who stood on his right re-cocked his revolver and with the deliberation of death fired at the President again. The President fell to the floor, the blood spurting profusely from a jagged wound in his side. Guiteau fled. The pistol was dropped and the smoke of the powder drifted innocently upward to the ceiling.

Before almost the echo of the report had found its way out to the open air, the President was surrounded. A terrible deed had been committed. Assassination for the second time had stricken the Chief Magistrate. For an instant those nearest to him could not believe their senses. Then ensued a moment of terrible agony and confusion. Secretary Blaine sprang after the assassin, who, finding his way barred in one direction, turned in another only to run into the arms of the law. Seeing he was caught, Mr. Blaine turned again to the wounded man. Mrs. Sarah E. V. White, who had charge of the ladies' waiting-room ran to the President as he fell, knelt down and gently took his head in her lap. The shock of the bullet had been very great. He was very pale. He neither stirred nor spoke. In a minute vomiting began, all color faded from his face and he leaned heavily on those who were supporting him.

By this time had gathered about the wounded

man a horror-stricken crowd. Secretary Windom, Secretary Hunt, Postmaster-General James and others of the party that had met to accompany the President north, were all in and out of the room. sending hither and thither messengers and messages for doctors. The President's own carriage dashed off at a gallop to the White House, to the astonishment of the people on the avenue who had not yet learned the direful news. A local physician was first to arrive of those summoned. He came in breathless, in response to the awful summons, just as a mattress was brought on which to lay the wounded man. The room being uncomfortably crowded with men-in whose eyes stood tears, gathered in the first pause of their terror to offer any, every aid in their power-it was decided to remove the President to the room above.

Hardly had the mattress been laid upon the floor, when the wounded man, ever thoughtful of those nearest to him, ever forgetful of self, even while his life blood was oozing from him, turned to his friend and said:

"Rockwell, I want you to send a message to 'Crete'" (the pet name used for his wife, Lucretia). "Tell her I am seriously hurt, how seriously I cannot yet say. I am myself, and hope she will come to me soon. I send my love to her."

Was there ever anything more ineffably tender, more wonderfully gentle than this? History does not contain a similar tenderness in all its many