The coach stopped in front of the hotel, and we alighted upon almost the same spot from which I had climbed into the carriage to leave Sonoma six years earlier.  But, oh, how changed was everything!  One sweeping glance at the little town revealed the fact that it had passed its romantic age and lost its quickening spirit.  Closed were the homes of the old Spanish families; gone were the caballeros and the bright-eyed senoritas; grass-grown was the highway to the mines; the flagstaff alone remained flushed with its old-time dignity and importance.  In subdued mood, I stepped into the parlor until our names should be registered.  When my husband returned, I said,

“The carpet on this floor, the chairs in this room, and the pictures on these walls were in place in grandma’s home when I left her—­perhaps she is no longer living.”

He left me again to make inquiry concerning those whom we had come to see, and ascertained that the Brunners had remarried for the purpose of facilitating the readjustment of their property rights, and of rescuing them from the hands of a scheming manager, who, with his family, was now living on the estate, and caring for grandma, but would not permit grandpa to enter the house.

After sending a messenger to find grandpa, I led the way to the open door of the old home, then slipped aside to let my husband seek admission.  He rapped.

[Illustration:  GENERAL VALLEJO’S CARRIAGE, BUILT IN ENGLAND IN 1832]

[Illustration:  GENERAL VALLEJO’S OLD JAIL]

I heard a side door open, uneven footsteps in the hall, and him saying quietly, “I think the old lady herself is coming, and you had better meet her alone.”  I crossed the threshold, opened my arms, and uttered the one word, “Grandma!”

She came and rested her head against my bosom and I folded my arms about her just as she had enfolded me when I went to her a lonely child yearning for love.  She stirred, then drew back, looked up into my face and asked, “Who be you?”

Touched by her wistful gaze, I exclaimed, “Grandma, don’t you know me?”

“Be you Eliza?” she asked, and when I had given answer, she turned from me in deepest emotion, murmuring, “No, no, it can’t be my little Eliza!” She would have tottered away had I not supported her to a seat in the well-remembered living room and caressed her until she looked up through her tears, saying, “When you smile, you be my little Eliza, but when you look serious, I don’t know you.”

She inquired about Georgia, and how I came to be there without her.  Then she bade me call my husband, and thanked him for bringing me to her.  Forgetting all the faults and shortcomings that once had troubled her sorely, she spoke of my busy childhood and the place I had won in the affections of all who knew me.

A tender impulse took her from us a moment.  She returned, saying, “Now, you must not feel bad when you see what I have in the hand behind me,” and drawing it forth continued, “This white lace veil which I bought at Sutter’s Fort when your mother’s things were sold at auction, is to cover my face when I am dead; and this picture of us three is to be buried in the coffin with me.  I want your husband to see how you looked when you was little.”