We started early yesterday morning in the private car, for a junction, or terminus (I am not sure which) called Hot Creek,—­everyone in the best of spirits after a send off from all our friends.  Marcus Aurelius’s face to welcome us on board was enough to rejuvenate anyone, simply a full moon of black and white smiles, and I am sure he is the first person Merecdes has confided her love affair to, for he seems to watch over her and Gaston like a deus ex machina.

Nelson and I sat out on the observation veranda again, and he told me many things of all this land, and how often the poor adventurers coming out West will climb on to the irons under the trains, and then cling for countless miles, chancing hideous death to be carried along; and how, sometimes, they will get lost and die of starvation.  And just then, in the grimmest country of absolutely arid desert valley, between highish barren hills, we saw a beautiful lake of blue water with green trees reflected in it, and when I looked at Nelson his eyes were sad.  Nothing could have seemed more cool or refreshing; it made one long to jump out of the train and go and bathe, for now, though still early in the spring, it is getting very hot.  “It is nothing but a mirage,” Nelson said.  “There is no water there and no trees.  It comes and goes in this part of the desert according to the state of the atmosphere, and it has been the cause of many a poor fellow’s end.”  How treacherous, Mamma!  How cruel of Nature to treat her children so!  And then he put his head back and pulled his hat over his eyes.

“A mirage,” he said, like one dreaming.  “Guess it’s often like life.”  And then he told me of the curious effect it had had upon his imagination the first time he had seen it, when alone with his burros, prospecting; how it seemed to say to him to make a reality of green and prosperity out of the parched world, and how his thoughts always returned there when he had successes, and he dreamed of a day when he should rest a little by just such a lake.  “To rest my soul,” he said, “if I have any; to rest it with someone I should love.”

And, as once before, the Senator broke in upon us with his cheery, charming voice, “Guess you two are talking like high-flown poet coons,” he said, “and there is breakfast to be thought of, and happy things like that.”  And then as Nelson went in front he stepped back and put his kind hand under my chin, and raised it and looked straight into my eyes.

“Little daughter,” he said, “little friend, p’raps your heart’s aching for someone over the sea, but don’t make his heart ache, too, now.  Promise me.”  And of course I won’t, Mamma, and of course I promised.  Isn’t it a queer world?  And all mirage, as Nelson said.  Well, now let us get on and laugh and be gay.  An eleven o’clock breakfast was our usual fun; you can’t imagine such a well arranged party, never a jar or disagreement, like, I am sure, we should be having if there were Englishwomen.  In a flock Americans are infinitely more agreeable to deal with.  I expect it is in the blood, having had to spend such quantities of time, all women together, while the men are away.