did not himself go to bed that night, but sat down in his great armchair before the fire. His lips gently formed the word "Mary," as he did so, and in his eyes was a far-off look of longing, and of peace, too, as he fell asleep. The clock slowly struck twelve and the new year was born.

The next morning was bright and beautiful; the church-bells were ringing, for it was the Sabbath, and the people were thronging to church with pleasant New Year greetings. But the old high-backed pew where Jonas had for so many years worshiped, was empty, and the villagers missed his well-known voice, leading in the responses. Was he dead? Had the new year gently borne away his life, and left a corpse in the old armchair before the embers of his fire?

No, he was not dead, and no one was more surprised than himself when he woke and found himself so prosaically alive. He felt put out and vexed, as though he had been defrauded of his due. So strong was this feeling that he was really unable to go about his ordinary way of life, and sat in despondent thought before his fire.

His dog came whining to him for breakfast; and he arose mechanically and fed him. About noon came the old woman who attended to his simple wants in the way of housekeeping. She was much surprised to find him not at church, and insisted that he was ill. So he was forced to drink some herb tea and go to bed.

The afternoon and early evening were miserably spent. He ruminated over the peculiar and unaccountable circumstance of his being alive, and it was only after long thought that he was able to come to any satisfactory conclusion about it. He finally decided that there was some mistake about the day, and that he would certainly die that night. Still he was harassed by some doubt, and fell asleep with an uneasy fear that another morning might dawn and find. him alive. Only too real were the grounds for such fear. The next morning broke,

and Jonas still lived.

What if he

He was extremely troubled. should go on, so persistently refusing to shuffle off that mortal coil which he so much desired to be freed of? Who would be accountable for the actions of a death so unpunctual and deceptive? In such thoughts he spent the whole of that miserable day, and though he fully believed his end was near, felt by no means so sure that it would come immediately. At the same time he tacitly decided that it would be deferred no longer than a week. But the week rolled

by; no signs of that consummation so earnestly desired by him. estly desired by him. At last his friends, alarmed by such continued absence of Jonas from his accustomed haunts, came in a body to visit him. To all their inquiries, however, he returned no satisfactory answer. He felt a natural delicacy in broaching the true subject of his anxiety, and so his friends went away unenlightened.

All this time the nightly glass of punch had been missing, and Jonas had not even. provided the ingredients for it, considering it useless to spend money on them when his life was to end so soon. Now, however, he was forced to buy provisions, for his larder was getting low. This exhausted the little sum of money left him, and there was no margin besides the money set apart for funeral expenses. The next fortnight rolled by in due course, and Jonas yet lived. his old friends knew him no more. He never left his little cottage, and on Sundays even, he did not go so far as to church.

But

Again his friends came to see what kept him indoors. He then for the first time unfolded a little his thoughts:

"You see, boys, I kind o' expected to die about this time, an' I don't exactly understand it. It's time, ye know: I've ben waitin' for it all this time, an' I expect it'll come soon."

It was only to his two personal intimates that he made this explanation; and to them even, he did not explain the use he had

made of his fortune. They tried to encourage him, as they termed it, and assured him he was certain of twenty years more of life. But he shook his head and said he knew. So the old fellows hobbled off, after vainly awaiting an invitation to partake of some punch, and Jonas was left to wait.

The leaden days and weeks rolled by, and Jonas wondered at the delay. His funeral fund was broken, and as each little sum was taken, he mentally curtailed some fraction of the ceremony.

"I can't have so many horses onto the hearse," he premised as he spent a small sum on flour. "That coffin o' rosewood 'll have to go," was the conclusion drawn from the purchase of a cord of firewood.

The winter had softened into spring and all Nature was joyful in the work of rejuvenation. Jonas's little garden was sadly in want of attention, but he bestowed none upon it.

Where was the use of cultivating flowers and vegetables for a dead man? So the mild lilacs bloomed in sweet profusion, regardless of bounds, and all the sweet children of the spring made merry havoc, unrestrained by the pruning knife or spade. The vegetable garden nourished a family of weeds, glorying over the unusual peace which attended their growth, and all betokened neglect and indifference.

He

Within the cottage was a very serious state of affairs. Jonas had used up the last penny of his money and was almost out of provisions. He thought with a dim resentment of the strange and inexplicable conduct of death in so long delaying. was saddened and hurt about it; and to all his other cares the fear of starvation added its weight. It was indeed a sorry time for him, and his head hung low before the old fireplace, as he sat in his arm-chair, thinking upon his fallen fortunes.

One day there came a crisis. All food was gone; not a scrap of meat or crust of bread in the larder. There was nothing to be done. Jonas looked at his little cottage,

and the thought of selling it, or a part of the simple furniture, entered for a moment his brain. But he instantly resolved that, however low he should be brought, he would never sell from over his head the roof that had sheltered him so long, nor any part of those household possessions that had been familiar to him from childhood. Better to leave the place and go to hide his shame far from the people who had known and respected him for so long a time. And indeed

this idea took more and more possession of him as he sat in his garden that pleasant May morning, idly listening to the hum of bees and the song of nesting birds, and sorrowful thoughts went trooping through his brain. Without more ado he arose and went into his cottage and took one last look around. There were tears in his eyes as he came out again, and his face was pale, but resolute, as he stepped out into the road. One last look back at that dear old garden and its wealth of beauty and fragrance; and he turned away his brimming eyes and saw no more. Yet how long the picture remained on his view. Through the whole of that weary day he saw with the eye of fancy the quaint, homely cot, of gray, weather-beaten stone; the little diamondpaned windows giving a welcome to the way-farer; the bees humming about the eaves, and the garden looking so fresh and charming in the spring morning.

Jonas was meanwhile slowly plodding along the lanes, regardless of all about him, and grieving bitterly at being obliged in his old age to forsake the home of his parents, and take to his heels like any common vagrant. Had you seen him that morning, you would have been impressed by his appearance. A meek and gentle-looking old man, who seemed mutely to lament with his eyes the sad lot that attended him. Ever and anon, he stopped to brush the dust from his shoes and endeavor to preserve his clothing from soil. But it was a fruitless task, and he only became the more

Jonas

stopped their warbling, and the ceaseless hum of insects was the only sound. lay down by the roadside and tried to sleep. A mournful prayer wavered from his lips, and soon he slumbered. The hours of the night slowly crept away, and at last the sun began to send before him indications of the dawn.

Then Jonas awoke. His joints were stiff from the unwonted exposure, and he was faint from hunger, for since the noon of two days before, no food had passed his lips. He tried to go on, but after a few hours his tired limbs refused to perform their office. He was loath to present his infirmity to the world, so he went from the road into a piece of woods near by and feebly reclined on the springy turf. Soon he fell asleep, and the sun continued on his course.

Once more evening came on. At last Jonas awoke, and essayed to continue his journey, with a desperate conviction that he must get to some village and beg something to eat. Presently a turn in the road disclosed a little collection of houses, nestled cosily in a grove of fruit trees, all in full bloom, and filling the air with the sweet fragrance of their pink and white flowers. But each house was peopled by a family; and laughing children looked out with wonder at the tired looking old man who hobbled so painfully by. So he was reluctant to ask charity, and passed slowly through the little village, by the church and its quaint, simple graveyard. And he thought as he looked at the mounds of turf that were sprinkled so plentifully, and at the white headstones, that but for a great neglect he should be now lying under the sod, at peace in the quiet of the spring evening. So he slowly went on.

Presently he seemed to have passed through the village and to have come once more to the open country, when he saw a

little cottage, almost hidden under the ivy that climbed over its gray walls, and behind the thick lilac bushes and blossoming apple and cherry trees. In front was a little garden, which reminded Jonas of his own, now so far away. In the garden was an old woman who was bending over some early roses. She was a hospitable looking person, although only a part of her face was visible, and at sight of her Jonas felt a recurrence of his original motive. So he went in through the little wicker gate, and came and stood near her. But speech failed him, so he hung his head and waited. The old dame did not look up, so gentle had been the sound of footsteps on the soft ground. She still bent over the rose-bush, apparently examining its leaves. She had a tender, anxious look in her face, and a certain peace and dignity attended her as though sorrow had set his mark upon her. Still she did not look up, and Jonas felt himself growing faint and dizzy, yet could not summon up the courage to speak.

At last she turned and saw, though seemingly without surprise, the stranger by her side. As she looked at his features, a change came over her expression, a faint blush rose to her cheeks, and she exclaimed "Jonas, is that you ?"

But Jonas stared at her and passed his hand over his eyes, and looked again; still he said not a word, and she hastened towards him, for he looked so weak and weary. She led him gently, her eyes brimming tears, to the vine-bowered porch, and just as they reached it he sank down heavily, as though in a faint. When he came to himself he saw her tender eyes looking anxiously into his, and with a deep sigh of content he murmured "" Mary!" For some time neither spoke, and she gently slipped away; but reappeared with a smoking bowl of porridge and a cup of tea. These she set before Jonas, who proceeded to quickly devour them. But his face had a half-puzzled though peaceful expression, and happiness

shone out of his eyes.

"Dear heart!" she exclaimed, as she saw how welcome to him was the food. "How thee must have hungered!"

When he had eaten, Jonas took her hand and they sat sat quietly in the gathering twilight, silent of words, but with joyful hearts. And as Jonas went to bed in the little spare chamber, he felt surprised to notice entire absence of that desire for death which had so haunted him before.

The next day he told her all the story of his fortunes, from the day of his first leaving the village in his youth, to the sad departure of a few days before. As he told her the loss of his possessions, her hand gently took his, and she said "Jonas, I have enough for thee and me."

That evening something very strange happened; as Jonas was about to retire, Mary entered the room and placed on the table a glass, some lemons, a bottle containing whisky, some sugar, and a kettle of hot water. So the long-missed punch was once more brewed, and Jonas was happy. As he was finishing his glass he fell to thinking, and the result of his reflections was soon expressed.

"I think he was a-lyin', said he in a tone of profound conviction.

"Who, dear?" questioned Mary.

"That agent," said Jonas, as he started for bed.

The next morning Jonas was thoughtful and preoccupied. He seemed saddened by

something. The truth was he felt his position as a dependent upon Mary's bounty, and she with a woman's perception noticed it. Nothing was said that day, but the sky seemed not so bright as before, nor the blossoms so sweet, and Jonas went to bed with a troubled heart.

I do not know how it came about, but the next morning at a little before noon you might have seen them sitting in the doorway, hand in hand, and a sweet, radiant happiness in their looks. The next day was the Sabbath, and the little knot of villagers who went to church were surprised to see Mary leading into her pew an old man, who smiled upon her joyfully, and had no eyes for aught besides. When the preacher, however, announced the marriage intentions of Mary Atherton, widow, and Jonas Lee, bachelor, their surprise knew no bounds. They stared at Mary, on whose withered cheek was a faint but beautiful blush, and they saw the stranger beaming upon her with the utmost joy of expression. So the good-natured villagers, less prying than is usual, minded their own business, and in a few weeks Jonas and Mary were man and wife.

Far off in the village once their home, the cottage abandoned by Jonas on that eventful morning was still empty, and the garden grew in undisturbed luxuriance. But the owner was in a distant town, at peace and happy in a new-found home and in an old, but long-lost love.

P. L. Sternbergh.

Elizabeth C. Atherton.

In April last the Supreme Court filed its opinion in the famous case of Lux vs. Haggin. This cause, on account of the magnitude of the interests involved, the arguments of eminent counsel on both sides, who presented their respective views at great length and with the greatest skill and pertinacity, demanded from the Court most careful consideration: and any one who will take the trouble to read the decision will see that the Court met the requirements of the situation, and did give to the question, both as to the law and the facts, an exhaustive examination.

Whether the majority of the Court were right or wrong in their conclusions, this fact is true: that no case ever before in California received such extended and deliberate consideration by the tribunal appointed to decide it.

It is unfortunate that the necessities of the situation required from the Court so long an opinion. As recently printed, the majority opinion occupies one hundred and thirty-seven closely printed pages. On account of its length few persons could read it with anything like care. Only one newspaper published it in full, and it was not until after the adjournment of the special session of the Legislature that it was printed in pamphlet form. Therefore it is not strange that erroneous impressions in regard to it should become fixed in the community. It affected the pecuniary interests of wealthy corporations and individuals, and, naturally enough, they hotly attacked it by speech and through the press. They denounced it as ruinous to the country; and the people, not understanding the merits of the controversy, supposed a great wrong had been committed. They understood. that the Court had announced a doc

trine which would be the death blow to irrigation in the southern part of the State, with the necessary results of turning its fruitful vineyards, orchards, and fields back to their original sheep pastures. It was said that if the owner of a few acres on the banks of a stream could insist, and the Courts back him up in his claim, that the waters of that stream should flow unvexed to the sea, then the owner of every garden, orchard, or field, who drew from the stream at a point above the bank owner the lifeblood to vivify his fruit and his vines, would be at the mercy of this riparian proprietornot only of this one, but of every other one on the whole course of the stream, from the place where the water was taken out to its mouth.

The public were so startled by the supposed effect of this decision, that a roar of indignation and disapproval went up, such as was never before heard in this State respecting the judgment of a Court. The excitement was fanned by the interested parties, who loudly demanded the reorganization of the Court, and the appointment or election of new judges pledged to reverse the decision of their ousted predecessors. The spectacle, so rarely seen in the history of our institutions, was presented of, apparently, a popular determination to overturn an obnoxious judgment of a Court, and the Court with it.

But when the governor of the State, yielding to the clamor, and a petition of a majority of the legislature, called the extra session for the express purpose of reorganizing the Court, the Anglo-Saxon instinct of respect for law and settled institutions began to reassert itself. When face to face with such a scheme of revolution, our people began to