The Governor spoke of schools and divers matters pertaining to our welfare, then promised to explain by letter to Aunt Elizabeth how fortunately we were situated.

This event created quite a flutter of excitement among friends.  Grandpa and Jakie felt just as grandma did about keeping us.  Georgia and I were assured that in not being allowed to go across the water, we had escaped great suffering, and, perhaps, drowning by shipwreck.  Still, we did wish that it were possible for us to see Aunt Elizabeth, whom mother had taught us to love, and who now wanted us to come to her.

I told Georgia that I would learn to write as fast as I could, and send her a letter, so she would know all about us.

We now imagined that we were quite large girls, for grandma usually said before going away, “Children, you know what there is to do and I leave everything in your care.”  We did not realize that this was her little scheme, in part, to keep us out of mischief; but we knew that upon her return she would see, and call attention to what was left undone.

Once, when we were at home alone and talking about “endless work and aching bones,” as we had heard grown-up folks complain of theirs, we were interrupted by a bareback rider who did not “tie up” under the live oak, but came to the shade of the white oak in front of us at the kitchen door.  After a cheery “Howdy do” and a hand shake, he exclaimed,

“I heard at Napa that you lived here, and my pony has made a hard run to give me this sight of you.”

We were surprised and delighted, for the speaker was John Baptiste who had wintered with us in the Sierras.  We asked him to dismount, take a seat under the tree, and let us bring him a glass of milk.  He declined graciously, then with a pleased expression, drew a small brown-paper parcel from his trousers pocket and handed it to us, leaned forward, clasped his arms about his pony, rested his head on its neck, and smilingly watched Georgia unwrap it, and two beautiful bunches of raisins come to view,—­one for each.  He would not touch a single berry, nor let us save any.  He asked us to eat them then and there so that he could witness our enjoyment of the luxury he had provided for this, our first meeting in the settlement.

Never had we seen raisins so large, translucent, and delicious.  They seemed far too choice for us to have, and John was so poorly dressed and pinched in features that we hesitated about eating them.  But he would have his way, and in simple language told us that he wanted them to soften the recollection of the hungry time when he came into camp empty-handed and discouraged.  Also to fulfil his assurance to our mother that he would try to keep us in sight, and give us of the best that he could procure.  His last injunctions were, “Be good little girls; always remember your mother and father; and don’t forget John Baptiste.”

He was gone when grandma got back; and she was very serious when told what had occurred in her absence.  She rarely spoke to us of our mother, and feared it might lessen our affection for herself, if others kept the memory of the dead fresh in our minds.