ad men feared him.

We walked down the corridor and entered a large room, where an elderly
gentleman in uniform sat writing at a table. Aunt Lucy stopped beside
him, and still holding each by the hand, bowed low, saying, "General
Smith, I's brung der two little Donner gals in to see yo, sah"; then
she slipped out.

He was as courteous to us as though we were grown ladies, shook hands,
asked how we felt, begged us to be seated, and then stepped to a door
and called, "Susan! Susan!" I liked the name. A sweet voice answered,
"Coming!"

Presently, a pretty dark-eyed Southern lady appeared, who called us
"honeys," and "dear little girls." She sat between us, joining with her
husband in earnest inquiries about our stay in the mountains and our
home with grandma. Georgia did most of the talking. I was satisfied
just to look at them and hear them speak. At the close of our visit,
with a knowing look, she took us to see what Aunt Lucy had baked.

The General and she had recently come to pay a last visit to a sick
officer, who had been sent from San Francisco with the hope that our
milder climate would prolong his life. They themselves stayed only a
short time, and their friend never left our valley. The day he died,
the flag swung lower on the staff. Soldiers dug his grave on the
hillside north of town, and word came from army headquarters that he
would be buried on the morrow at midday, with military honors. Georgia
and I wanted to know what military honors were, and as it came time for
the funeral, we gathered with others on the plaza, where the procession
formed. We were deeply impressed.

The emigrants uncovered and bowed their heads reverently, but the
soldiers in line, with guns reversed, stood erect and motionless as
figures in stone, while the bier of the dead was being carried through
open ranks to the waiting caisson. The coffin was covered with a flag,
and upon it lay his chapeau, gauntlets, sash, and sword. His boots,
with their toes reversed, hung over the saddle of a riderless horse,
led behind the caisson. The solemn tones of fife and muffled drum led
the way through the town, past the old Mission bells and up the
hillside. Only soldiers stood close around the grave and heard what was
read by the officer who stood at its head, with an open book in one
hand and a drawn sword in the other. Three times the file of soldiers
fired a volley over the grave, then the muffled drum sounded its
farewell taps, and the o