d seven years for
Rachel, so I waited for Carrie."

The following summer brought us the good news that Captain Corliss'
company was ordered to Angel Island, in the bay of San Francisco. "Thank
goodness," said Jack, "C company has got some good luck, at last!"

Joyfully we started back on the overland trip to California, which took
about nine days at that time. Now, travelling with a year-old baby and a
five-year-old boy was quite troublesome, and we were very glad when
the train had crossed the bleak Sierras and swept down into the lovely
valley of the Sacramento.

Arriving in San Francisco, we went to the old Occidental Hotel, and as
we were going in to dinner, a card was handed to us. "Hoo Chack" was the
name on the card. "That Chinaman!" I cried to Jack. "How do you suppose
he knew we were here?"

We soon made arrangements for him to accompany us to Angel Island, and
in a few days this "heathen Chinee" had unpacked all our boxes and made
our quarters very comfortable. He was rather a high-caste man, and as
true and loyal as a Christian. He never broke his word, and he staid
with us as long as we remained in California.

And now we began to live, to truly live; for we felt that the years
spent at those desert posts under the scorching suns of Arizona had
cheated us out of all but a bare existence upon earth.

The flowers ran riot in our garden, fresh fruits and vegetables, fresh
fish, and all the luxuries of that marvellous climate, were brought to
our door.

A comfortable Government steamboat plied between San Francisco and its
harbor posts, and the distance was not great--only three quarters of an
hour. So we had a taste of the social life of that fascinating city, and
could enjoy the theatres also.

On the Island, we had music and dancing, as it was the headquarters
of the regiment. Mrs. Kautz, so brilliant and gay, held grand court
here--receptions, military functions, lawn tennis, bright uniforms, were
the order of the day. And that incomparable climate! How I revelled in
it! When the fog rolled in from the Golden Gate, and enveloped the great
city of Saint Francis in its cold vapors, the Island of the Angels lay
warm and bright in the sunshine.

The old Spaniards named it well, and the old Nantucket whalers who
sailed around Cape Horn on their way to the Ar'tic, away back in the
eighteen twenties, used to put in near there for water, and were
well familiar with its bright shores, before it was touched