the ordinary man of science. The duties of a priest and of a physician to the poor people of Frauenberg he prosecuted faithfully to the end.

During these years, his fellow astronomers were less patient than Copernicus himself. They were constantly urging him to publish his discovery to the world, until at last, he yielded to their entreaties and the printing began. It was evident, indeed, that he had waited quite long enough. The old man was now seventy years of age, and the signs of approaching dissolution were rapidly manifesting themselves. Stricken with mortal disease, he at last took to his bed, and there awaited the re

turn of the messenger who was to bring the first copy of his book from the press. When the messenger came, Copernicus was dying. For a moment, the author quietly regarded his book. Then turning away, he fixed his thoughts upon still more serious matters-the most solemn that can come to the attention of man.

Amidst the deep calm of those many years passed in humble retirement, the great astronomer had begun and ended a work, than which none more important has ever come from the hand of man. A still deeper calm lay upon the face of the author, when his work first went forth to the world. S. S. Hebberd.

TH

HE autumn sunlight lay so brightly on the hills of Newbern that afternoon, that Margaret could hardly believe that the year was near its close. She lingered in the garden, and wandering up and down the paths busied herself in pleasant little services. Here she plucked the dead leaves from a crimson woodbine, and there pulled some weeds from a bed of asters. A woman never seems more in her proper place than in a garden. Perhaps it is because we have been used from childhood to think of the far-off first woman as living in the bloom of Paradise.

Look at Margaret. She is a comely English woman. Not in the first days of womanhood, for there is a calm upon her face that comes only to those who have outlived some trouble. She has been a widow for some time, and yet wears a black dress, but no widow's cap covers the shining braids of her dusky hair. More than three years ago her husband, Philip Owen, bade his sweet wife good-by and sailed for San Francisco. He had left England reluctantly, for it was very hard to part with Margaret, and again he was becoming eminent in his profession of the law, and rightly felt that a long absence would be an injury to his brilliant prospects. His doctor, however, assured the whole family that nothing but a long sea voyage would restore him to perfect health. The ship on which he sailed was lost at sea.

Then a great change fell upon this woman, all her life before so full of hope and cheerfulness. After the first dark cloud of her misery was lifted, she fell into a strange, quiet way, full of seriousness and patience, more touching than the tears of other wo

men were.

But such brave natures as hers cannot live long in despair; its air is not native to them. By little and little she brought back some interest for her books and garden, and sometimes her wonderful voice sang some strain long unheard, and ringing through the old house startled it with sweet echoes. A year more passed by, and she was again her own cheerful self.

Let us leave Margaret in the garden, and enter the house. Tea is waiting in the old

fashioned parlor. There is a little fire upon the hearth, for these bright October days bring chilly evenings, and seated before it is an old lady attired in a soft, dark dress, with white cap tied beneath her chin. She is talking placidly to a brighthaired child, scarcely more than a baby, for he knows so few words that he seldom interrupts his grandmother's story, but listens sedately, holding her hand tightly in the grasp of his fat fingers. A young man enters the room whom we recognize at once as the son of this old gentlewoman, because he has inherited her handsome features. But here all resemblance ceases: Dr. John Lindsay is as unceremonious and alert in his manner as his mother is dignified and placid. His young wife is at his side; she holds a letter in her hand which she gives presently to the old lady. "For Margaret."

"She is in the garden; Wally must call Aunt Margaret."

No sooner said than the child ran from his place as fast as his brown, stout little legs would carry him.

John watched his boy from the window and reported his progress. "He's got to the apple tree already, trips on a stone, down he goes, looks at his leg, now he's off out of sight."

In a few minutes Margaret came in, bringing her little nephew on her arm.

"A letter for you, dear,” said her mother, placing it in her hand.

"Don't wait to read it now, Margaret," said Jenny, "for tea is just ready."

John led his mother to her place at the cheerful table, and Margaret and his brightfaced little wife tollowed. Wally was there too, and as the art of drinking was as yet unknown to him, they handed him a bottle of milk which he sucked so vigorously that by the time tea was poured out for his relatives, he had exhausted the last drop, and sat regarding them all with a surfeited and happy expression.

After the tea things were carried out, John and Jenny went to put their boy to bed and left the mother and daughter alone. Margaret drew her chair near to her mother and opened her letter. She read it through