visitor, her chamber being distinct,
and my own rule being absolute therein, with the aid of a docile
adjunct.

Ernest Wentworth, our adopted son--so-called for want of any other
name--is the standard of perfection in mind and morals, for the
imitation of the rest of the band of children.

He has gained the usual stature of young men of his age, with a slight
defect of curvature of the shoulders that does but confirm his scholarly
appearance.

His face, with its magnificent brow, piercing dark eyes, pale
complexion, and clustering hair, is striking, if not handsome.

He has graduated as a student of law, and, should his health permit,
will, I cannot doubt, distinguish himself as a forensic orator.

George Gaston and Madge have promised a visit to the Vernons; but I
cannot help hoping, rather without than _for_ any good reason, that they
will not come! I love them both, yet I feel they are mismated, even if
happy.

My husband is noted among his peers for his liberal and noble-minded use
of a princely income, and his great public spirit. He unites
agricultural pursuits with his profession, and has placed, among other
managers, my old ally, Christian Garth and his family, on the ranch he
holds nearest to San Francisco.

Thence, at due seasons, seated on a wain loaded with the fruits of their
labor, the worthy pair come up to the city to trade, and never fail in
their tribute to our house.

The immigrant possessed of worth and industry, however poor; the
adventurous man, who seeks by the aid of his profession alone to
establish himself in California; the artist, the man of letters, all
meet a helping hand from Wardour Wentworth, who in his charities
observes but one principle of action, one hope of recompense, both to be
found in the teachings of philanthropy:

"As I do unto you, go you and do unto others." This is his maxim.

Our lives have been strangely happy and successful up to this hour, so
that sometimes my emotional nature, too often in extremes, trembles
beneath its burden of prosperity, and conjures up strange phantoms of
dark possibilities, that send me, tearful and depressed, to my husband's
arms, to find strength and courage in his rare and calm philosophy and
equipoise.

Never on his sweet serene brow have I seen a frown of discontent, or a
cloud of sourceless sorrow, such as too often come--the last especially
to mine--born of that melancholy which has its root far back in the
bosoms of my anc