I had Mr. Hutchings fit out my guide with lunch and tea, and send him right back to her.  About six she arrived, pretty nearly jelly.  We both had a hot bath and she went supperless to bed, but I took my rations.  Presently John K. McLean and party, of Oakland, came in.  They had scaled Glacier Point that day and were about as tired and fagged as we.  The next day Mrs. Stanton kept her bed till nearly noon; but I was up and on my horse at eight and off with the McLean party for the Nevada and Vernal Falls....

Saturday morning, with Stephen M. Cunningham for my guide, I went up the Mariposa trail seven miles to Artist’s Point, and there under a big pine tree, on a rock jutting out over the valley, sat and gazed at the wondrous walls with their peaks and spires and domes.  I could take in not only the whole circuit of the mountain tops but the valley enshrined below, with the beautiful Merced river meandering over its pebbly bed among the grass and shrubs and towering pines.  We reached the hotel at 7 P.M.—­tired—­tired.  Not a muscle, not one inch of flesh from my heels to my hands that was not sore and lame, but I took a good rub-off with the powerful camphor from the bottle mother so carefully filled for me, and went to bed with orders for my horse at 6 A.M.

Sunday morning’s devotion for Minister McLean and the Rochester strong-minded was to ride two and a half miles to Mirror lake, and there wait and watch the coming of the sun over the rocky spires, reflected in the placid water.  Such a glory mortal never beheld elsewhere.  The lake was smooth as finest glass; the lofty granite peaks with their trees and shrubs were reflected more perfectly than costliest mirror ever sent back the face of most beautiful woman, and as the sun slowly emerged from behind a point of rock, the thinnest, flakiest white clouds approached or hung round it, and the reflection shaded them with the most delicate, yet most perfect and richest hues of the rainbow.  And while we watched and worshipped we trembled lest some rude fish or bubble should break our mirror and forever shatter the picture seemingly wrought for our special eyes that Sunday morning.  Then and there, in that holy hour, I thought of you, dear mother, in the body, and of dear father in the beyond, with eyes unsealed, and of Ann Eliza and Thomas King.  I talked to John of them and wondered if they too sat not with us in that holy of holies not made with hands.  O, how nothing seemed man-made temples, creeds and codes!

At San Jose Miss Anthony was the guest of Rev. and Mrs. Charles G. Ames.  Her audience was small but appreciative, and the Mercury, edited by J.J.  Owen, said:  “After all the mean notices by certain of the daily papers in San Francisco, her hearers were astonished at the masterly character of her address.  She held her audience delighted for an hour and forty minutes.”  From here she went to the Geysers, riding on the front seat with driver Foss, and she says in her diary:  “On the way out he explained to me the philosophy of fast driving down the steep mountain sides; and on the way back he unfolded to me the sad story of his life.”