"Yes," Mr. Mechlin said, as if to reiterate some previous assertion, "yes, I have lived my allotted term; my life is now an incumbrance-nay, it is a burden on those who love me. If I were not living, George could take his wife, his mother and sister, to reside in New York, but because I cannot live in that climate, all those dear ones remain in this exile."

"But why should you call it exile? They don't think it is; and even if it were, my friend, you have no right to cut your life off at your will," said Don Mariano.

"Why not? Life is a free gift, and often a very onerous one. Why keep it, when to reject it would be preferable? when it would release others from painful obligations?"

"But are you sure that the grief and horror of knowing that you took your own life would not be a million times worse than the supposed exile you imagine to be so objectionable?"

"Perhaps so; but I assure you, since I have lost all my money, and when I am too old to make another fortune, my health has begun to fail again.

I hate life without health, and these constant annoyances of financial difficulties will end by prostrating me on a sick-bed again. Now, when I have lost nearly all the money I invested in San Diego, now they come down on me to pay a note of ten thousand dollars which I endorsed, with five others. Why don't the others pay their share? I am willing to pay two thousand dollars, but not the entire sum."

"I don't see why you should, either. What does your lawyer say?"

"He shrugs his shoulders, caresses his side-whiskers, and says he _thinks_ that some of the other indorsers are insolvent, because their property has depreciated so much that it would bring nothing if sold; while those that have some means, no doubt, put everything out of their hands, so I am left alone to pay the entire sum."

The sad dialogue of the grandpapas was now interrupted, as they were called to witness the glee of the babies at the sight of the illuminated Christmas-tree. When the surprise of first sight was over, little Mariano Mechlin stretched out both hands for the colored candles. His uncle Tano gave him a tin trumpet, teaching him how to blow it; whereupon baby Mechlin gave the company a blast, and looked so surprised at his own performance, and gazed around so triumphantly and yet so perplexed, that he made everybody laugh. Josefita looked at her cousin distrustfully and gave her arms to her papa, as if she thought Marianito was entirely too martial for the vicinity of peaceful babies like herself. Gabriel took her near the tree to select any toy she liked. She fancied a string of bright balls, which her father gave her. The babies were allowed to be in the parlor for nearly an hour, and they were so bright, trying to repeat what was taught them, that it was really amusing to watch them. Marianito sang for the company; all were surprised to hear so young a baby sing so well. None enjoyed more heartily their cunning ways than the two grandfathers, especially Don Mariano, and both babies clung to him when the nurses came to take them to bed.

When the babies had made their exit, the children of larger growth had their music and dancing until ten, supper being then announced. On returning to the parlor, after supper, the clock upon the mantel struck twelve; at the same time a curtain ran up, and an altar was disclosed to view, tastefully decorated in the Roman Catholic style, having statues of the Virgin Mary, the divine infant, enveloped in fleecy drapery, and St. Joseph standing by his side. Behind the cradle were three magi, and further off, the hills of Judea were seen. As all the company were Roman Catholics, all entered into the spirit of the commemoration, and joined with true feeling in the carol led by Mrs. Darrell and Alice. Other sacred songs were sung, and then all retired for the night; the Darrells promising to come on the following evening to have another dance, because-said Victoriano-it must be celebrated that they had heard from Clarence, and that he had found his legs, meaning that he (Tano) had again the use of his limbs.

Christmas Day was passed very happily, and in the evening the young people assembled in the parlor for a dance. Don Mariano excused himself to Mr. Mechlin, saying he felt badly, and thought that he ought to be in bed.

At about eleven o'clock he sat up in bed and looked around as if wishing to speak. Gabriel and Mercedes were sitting by his bed, and promptly asked if he wished for anything.

"The sins of our legislators have brought us to this," he exclaimed, leaning back. Presently he said: "Call your mother, my son."

Gabriel called his mother, who being in the next room, talking with Mrs.

Mechlin, was quickly by his side.

"Call Elvira and Tano. Call Carlota and Rosario and George. Call all, all, quickly! I fear, my beloved son, I fear I am dying! Bring all my girls; I must bless them all!"

Mercedes had her arms around him. He looked at her lovingly.

"My baby, kiss me. Tell Clarence I bless him with my last breath." His voice began to fail him, but his eyes seemed glowing with an intensity that was startling. He sat up again, looking at each one of the anxious faces around his bed. "God bless you all, my beloved ones," said he, hoarsely.

"Papa, darling, can't we do something to relieve you?" asked Mercedes.

He shook his head and whispered:

"Too late. The sins of our legislators!"

"Do you feel pain, father?" Gabriel asked.

"Not now," he whispered, extending his hand to George as if to say good-by. He looked again to see whether every one of his family was there; he forgot no one; he seemed anxious to see them all for the last time. He extended his arms to his wife; she came to him. "Pray for me,"

he whispered, moving his lips as if in prayer, and leaning on Gabriel, who held him, closed his eyes and sighed. A few aspirations followed that last sigh, and all was over-his noble soul had passed away.

For some moments no one believed that his lofty and noble spirit had left the earth, but when the truth was at last realized, the scene of grief, of heart-rending agony, that followed would be impossible for me to describe.

Closely in the sad train of this mournful event, and as a fitting sequel and a complement of such dire misfortune, another disaster, more unexpected, more dreadful and tragic, followed, which must now be related. It shall be told as briefly as possible.

A few days had passed after the funeral, and the Alamar family were still in town. Dona Josefa and Mercedes were at the Mechlins.

Victoriano, Carlota and Rosario were at the Holmans; that is, they slept there, but as Mercedes was again prostrated with fever, they, as well as the Holmans, divided their time between the two houses.

One morning Mr. Mechlin arose from the breakfast table and said he was going hunting.

"Don't go far, James; you are too weak," said Mrs. Mechlin.

"I think, papa, you ought not to carry that heavy gun. You eat nothing, and walk too far, carrying it," Caroline said.

"Will you carry it for me?" he said, smiling.

"I will," Gabriel said; "I'll take George's, too, and go with you, if you'll permit me."

"It isn't necessary," he replied, going towards his room.

"I think papa has taken to heart the death of Don Mariano more than any one sees," said Caroline.

"I know he has; he has hardly slept or eaten enough to sustain life since that awful night," Mrs. Mechlin said, "and constantly talks about soon joining his best friend."

"I have observed how very sad he is. I wrote uncle to come; I think to see his brother will be great consolation to him," said George.

The report of a gun was heard in Mr. Mechlin's room, and all jumped to their feet. Gabriel was the first to run and got to the room in advance of the others. He found Mr. Mechlin shot through the heart.

"Oh, God! Was it accidental?" Mrs. Mechlin exclaimed, clasping her husband to heart. The dying man smiled, whispering:

"Do not mourn for me; it is best so; I shall be happier." He looked lovingly at the anxious faces surrounding him, and closed his eyes forever.

CHAPTER XXXV.-_The Fashion of Justice in San Diego._

If those kind eyes of the Goddess of Justice were not bandaged, but she could see how her pure white robes have been begrimed and soiled in San Diego, and how her lofty dignity is thus lowered to the dust, she would no doubt feel affronted and aggrieved. And if she is so irreverently maltreated, can she afford any protection to those who must rely on her alone, having no riches to maintain protracted litigation or carry their plaints to higher tribunals? To the moneyless laity Justice thus defiled seems as helpless as themselves. She is powerless to accomplish her mission upon earth whenever a Judge, through weakness or design, may choose to disregard her dictates. At present the dignity of a Judge's personality is more sacred than the abstract impersonality of justice.

Because the accepted theory being that Judges are always just and incorruptible (and generally the supposition is correct), there is a broad shelter for a Judge who may be neither just nor impartial. What mockery of justice it is in our fair land of freedom to say that a bad Judge can be impeached when impeachment is so hedged with difficulties as to be impossible-utterly ineffectual to protect the poor, victimized laity! Who is the poor litigant that would dare arraign an unjust Judge, well sheltered in his judicial ermine, and the entire profession ready to champion him? "_Libel_" would be the cry against any one who would dare hold the mirror for such Judge to see himself! Ah, yes, when the real libel is to distort the law and degrade the mission of justice on earth!

Peter Roper, knowing well with what impunity he could violate justice and decency, conceived the brilliant idea of taking the Mechlin house at Alamar, now that the family were sojourning in town. Peter did not like to divide the spoils, but as accomplices were absolutely necessary, there was no alternative but to take his friend and client Gasbang into the plot.

On a Sunday evening Peter proceeded to unfold his plan before John, who had come from his farm to attend church and was attired in a white vest and black coat, having just come from evening service. For, as I have said before, John Gasbang was a pillar of the church now, and never failed in his attendance every Sunday. People knew that in old times, when John was very poor, he used to play "_monte_" with the Indians and cheat them out of their money. Many times he had been known to spend almost the entire night sitting cross-legged on a blanket with a tallow candle set in a bottle to light his high-toned game, surrounded by the select company of naked Indians, who were too fascinated to see how plainly John was robbing them. Pitilessly would John strip his unsophisticated tattooed comrades of everything they owned on this earth. Their reed baskets, bows and arrows, strings of beads, tufts of feather-tips, or any other rustic and barbaric ornaments. All, all, John would gather up with his skillfully shuffled cards. The spoils he thus collected he would sell to other Indians from whom he would presently gather in (like the good Sexton he was), gather in, with high-toned and highly skillful shuffling. But John now was a rich man. Kindly San Diego had forgiven John's petty thieving. The money won from the poor Indians had helped him to thrive, and consequently convinced him that, after all, cheating was no worse than other sins, the gravity of which entirely depended upon the trick of hiding them. He would now try to hide his humble, predatory gambling, he said to himself, and seem respectable.

Yes, he would wear a white vest and try to look honest, but on hearing Roper's project, his dull, fishy eyes revolved quickly in their little sockets, and his square jaws expanded like those of a snake before it shakes its rattle and coils up to spring. His mouth watered in anticipation of the sweets of ill-gotten gain as he listened attentively to all that Roper had to say.

"I'll see Hogsden the first thing in the morning," said he, joyously.

"But wait. Can you trust him?"

"Trust him? I should say I could, and if he weakens, there is his wife to brace him up with her good advice. He owes a big sum of money to old Mechlin; so old Hoggy will be only too glad to get even by jumping the house. I suppose our friend, the Judge, is with us."

"Don't be silly. Do you suppose I would do a thing of this kind if I wasn't sure of him? He won't fail me. He'll do as I say. Be sure of that, and don't talk. Come to my house now and I'll draw up the conveyance. Hog. must sign his quit-claim deed, and then I'll see that his location of one hundred and sixty acres is properly filed. But, mind, if Hogsden betrays us, he'll spoil our game," observed Roper.

"Leave that to me," said John, rubbing his hands and giving his vest a downward pull.