For some months he lay in the workhouse infirmary, alone and unfriended, and I thought the streets of London would know his peering eyes no more. But there was more vitality in the old man than I expected. One cold winter's day, when the snow was falling, I met a melancholy procession of sandwich-men on Stamford Hill, among whom was Jonathan. The wind buffeted him, and his hands and his face were blue with cold. "I could not stand it any longer; I should have died if I had not come out," he told me when I asked as to his welfare. He gave me his address, and the quaint old man and I were again on visiting terms. Where he had bestowed his strange collection during his sojourn in the workhouse I never ascertained, but the bulk of it was in his new home. His things had been taken care of, he said, but no more. "How are you going to live?" "They allow me three shillings and sixpence from 'the house,' and I must pick up the rest." So he proceeded to pick up, for his health improved and his collection grew; but he did not pick up much money. The spring came, and Jonathan grew young again. One fine morning I met him, looking quite fresh and debonair. "Why, Jonathan," I said, "I really did not know you. How well and fresh you look!" "Yes, bless the Lord! He gives me strength to walk." "I wonder why He does that?" I foolishly said; but I expected the answer I got. "To find things that nobody else would find, and to prove that teetotallers are fools," he said. "But, Jonathan, I am a teetotaller." "I can't help that, can I? Look here, you can tell me how many gallons of water there is in a barrel of beer, but you can't tell me how much paper you bought when you thought you were buying tea and sugar." I humbly admitted my ignorance, and asked him what he was finding. "All sorts of things. Come in and see them when you are down my way." I went again to his "palace of varieties," and saw a cross of about eighteen inches high, standing in a neat wooden base, which was painted a bright vermilion, and a smaller cross made of cigarette-ends standing beside it. Pointing to the latter, he said: "That's to lie on my breast when I am in my coffin, and that" (the bigger one) "is to lie on my coffin when I'm buried. I don't want any wreaths." Small chance of wreaths at a parish funeral when this, our dear brother, is unceremoniously committed to the earth, I thought; but he was fearful about his tobacco. "You won't tell, will you? Don't give the show away," he said. I advised him not to offer the tobacco for sale this time. "Not me; I'll die first," he promptly replied.