He returned to his home in Coburg, exchanging, once for all, the momentous secrecies of European statecraft for the little-tattle of a provincial capital and the gossip of family life.

In his stiff chair by the fire he nodded now over old stories--not of emperors and generals--but of neighbours and relatives and the domestic adventures of long ago--the burning of his father's library--and the goat that ran upstairs to his sister's room and ran twice round the table and then ran down again.

Dyspepsia and depression still attacked him; but, looking back over his life, he was not dissatisfied.

His conscience was clear.
"I have worked as long as I had strength to work," he said, "and for a purpose no one can impugn.

The consciousness of this is my reward--the only one which I desired to earn." Apparently, indeed, his "purpose" had been accomplished.