It seemed hard, indeed, to think that a great strong man like Harrington, who had braved the storms, and endured the other hardships of the plains all winter long, should, during the warm and beautiful days of spring, when surrounded by friends and the comforts of a good home, be fatally stricken down.

But such was his fate.

He died one week from the day on which he was taken sick.

We all mourned his loss as we would that of a loved son or brother, as he was one of the truest, bravest, and best of friends.

Amid sorrow and tears we laid him away to rest in a picturesque spot on Pilot Knob.