The cause of Mr. Stephens's death was an old malady superinduced by riding up from the depot in a cab from which a pane of glass had been displaced, exposing him to the cold draft of an inclement February morning. The physical distress which followed bore so plainly the features of former attacks that Mr. Stephens was not at first alarmed; but when the customary remedies failed to give the usual relief he began to feel some uneasiness. However, it was not the trepidation which is felt by one who dreads the future which he finds himself obliged to face. Mr. Stephens had long ago put his house in order. He labored under none of the fears which are born of the darkness. Dr. Steiner was hastily summoned from Washington; but being detained at the death-bed of Gen. Dudley M. DuBose, he could not respond at once. However, he hurried to Atlanta as soon as he could get release. Mr. Stephens rallied somewhat after Dr. Steiner arrived. An invincible hope kept him busy down to the last moment, planning what he expected to do when he was well. It was the cheerful optimism characteristic of the invalid who has fought and won so many grim battles; but it was pathetic to the point of tears to watch the brave spirit as it still continued to struggle even after the pale flag had commenced to flutter above the wasted citadel. Often had the newspapers of the State told of the death of Mr. Stephens only to recall the premature announcement, but the sables of mourning were now to be donned upon authoritative tidings. Often had the grave yawned to receive the victim who was ever at the gates, but the tomb had been robbed for the last time, and the jealous portals were now to claim the coveted tenant

Among those who gathered about the sick-bedside tɔ witness the last scene in the life which was now slowly ebbing were the two ladies of the household, Mrs. Stephens and Mrs. Grier, both near relatives; Dr. Steiner, the old family physician, who had so often attended the patient; Col. C. W. Seidell, his private secretary; Col. John A. Stephens, his nephew; Hon. John T. Henderson, Dr. H. V. M. Miller, Dr. Raines, Judge Hall, A. L. Kontz, E. C. Kontz, T. B. Bradley and R. K. Paul. Besides there were two servants. It was not until Saturday, March the third, that the condition of Mr. Stephens had become alarming. But he had now commenced to sink rapidly, and shortly before midnight Dr. Steiner had spoken the message:

"The Governor is dying."

Though it had to come it was none the less bitter to those who had so long waited upon the helpless sufferer; and not the least forlorn of the silent group was the faithful black bodyguard, poor Aleck, whose best friend was now telling him good-by. Dr. Miller, who had been devoted to Mr. Stephens for years, kept his hands almost constantly upon the feeble wrist in which so faint were the pulsations that the existence of life could hardly be detected; and neither Dr. Miller nor Dr. Steiner could tell the precise moment when the spark was extinguished. But the invalid had ceased to suffer. The great Democrat had died as simply as he had lived.

One of the warmest admirers of Mr. Stephens in the sorrowful coterie about the sick bedside was Anton Kontz, and being then the superintendent of the Pullman Company, it was Mr. Kontz who had furnished the handsome Pullman coach which had brought Mr. Stephens

from Crawfordville to Atlanta. Several invited guests had gone to escort the Governor-elect to the Capitol; and in the speech-making which preceded the departure from Crawfordville one of the orators had told him that he was to travel like a prince; but Mr. Stephens, without waiting for him to stop, had interrupted the speaker with the remark:

"There are no princes in Georgia. At least I am not one of them. I am only the servant of the people."

It is said by those who stood at the bedside that the last articulate utterance which ever fell from the lips of the Great Commoner was: "Get ready, we are almost home." Perhaps in the delirium of his dying moments the old Governor, weary of the cares of State in the busy capital, was hurrying back over the iron rails to Crawfordville, and, looming above the tree-tops on the distant hillside, he had caught the familiar turrets of old Liberty Hall. Perhaps it was the black face of his old bodyguard which framed itself in his dying thoughts as he spoke those simple words, "Get ready, we are almost home." But, even if this was all, those commonplace words addressed to an old negro whom he loved were not unworthy of the golden approaches to the palace of the King.

With such an executive command still warm on the lips of the old Governor, it could not be said that death had really darkened the abode of power which had so lately opened amid the flare of tapers and the sparkle of gems to welcome the incoming occupant. An almost breathless hush pervaded the halls of the executive mansion. The tapers were out and the jewels flashed against sorrowful faces; but, in spite of the doleful symbols of an altered scene, it was far more appropriate to say that the old Governor had been once more inaugurated!

All was at last over. The doctor was now dismissed. The crutch was laid aside for good. The roller-chair was no longer needed. At last after seventy years there had fluttered down through the Sabbath hush of the sick-bedroom an old, old prescription which had made the invalid well. His wish had come true at last. Those lips had been dashed at the fountain which the Spaniard sought in vain. Those limbs had waxed strong and youthful. Those heart-beats had commenced anew to keep perpetual step to music that never ceases. It is unseemly in the mute mourner who bends over the attenuated figure to keep back the tears; for the absent loved ones are always missed. But over the beautiful clay let the laurel instead of the cypress rest; for in the goblet of death, fresh from the vintages of yonder hills, Alexander H. Stephens has found the elixir of life.