The crashing and thundering of Yosemite's falls plunging from dizzy heights, in splendor of furious avalanches, had been left behind.

George and his three companions had given the last lingering look towards the glorious rainbows and myriads of dazzling gems glittering in the sun's rays, which pierced the vertical streams and played through the spray and mist enveloping them.

The memory of the mirror lakes, with their gorgeous borders of green, their rich bouquets of fragrant azaleas and pond lilies, as well as the towering cliffs, the overpowering heights of that wonderful valley, all made a picture to remain forevermore a cherished souvenir.

But alas, for the fatality of human joys, all is evanescent in this world of ours; the moment of parting at last came for the lovers.

The west-bound train would pass the station first, so Clarence must be the one to leave his friends.

“Write to us soon, won't you?” George said.

“Certainly, as soon as I get to San Diego.”

“Write before, and let us know what you are doing.”

“All right, I will do so,” said he, and looked at Mercedes, who with down-cast eyes, felt his gaze but dared not look up.

“Don't fail to write the long letter you promised, after you have your talk with papa, and he has explained to mamma your position,” Elvira said.

“That is my all-absorbing thought. There is no danger of my failing to see Don Mariano the first minute I can do so. I will write immediately. To whom shall I direct my letter?”

“To me, of course,” Elvira replied, “and you will write to Mercita also, after matters have been explained to mamma.”

The distant rumbling as if of coming earthquake, and a far off shriek were now heard. In another minute the round-eyed monster was there, and snorting maliciously, rushed off with Clarence, leaving Mercedes leaning on George's arm, scarcely able to stand, and hardly realizing that Clarence had left them.

She was still very pale, and her hands yet trembled, when the thundering of the east-bound train was heard in the distance. Two shrieks pierced the air simultaneously, as the two trains passed each other. Her heart gave accelerated throbs when she heard those shrieks, because she knew that one of them came from the train which bore Clarence away, and it seemed to her as if expressive of his pain at being torn from her. Yes, that magician, the locomotive, understood it all, and shrieked to say he did so, because he knew she, too, wished to shriek like that.

What would you, my reader? She was so young—only seventeen—and in love. The poor child was naturally indulging in all sorts of foolish fancies while looking at the woods through which he had disappeared.

But there was now the east-bound train, and George taking her towards it.

He laughed loudly as they walked to the cars, and Elvira asked why he laughed.

“I declare, Mercedes, you must have fascinated those two fellows more than is good for them—for there they are as large as life.”

“Who, George?” Elvira asked.

“Why, who should it be but Selden and Bob Gunther.”

“Oh!” ejaculated Mercedes. “Please George get a compartment where we can be by ourselves,” implored she.

“I will; you shall have it if money or influence or anything short of murder can get it,” said he, helping them up the car steps. “But in the meantime I am going to locate you here, while I go to interview the conductor and porter. This is the last car—you will be here unobserved. Those fellows did not see us get in.” So saying, George went off, laughing heartily.

Neither conductor nor porter were to be found in the next car, or the next to that, and George made his way through them as quickly as their jolting and swinging permitted.

At the further end of the fourth car he spied a porter talking with two foreign-looking gentlemen, who were none other than Messrs. Gunther and Selden. Their backs were turned toward him, so he had time to approach them unobserved, near enough to hear Selden say, in his anglicised accents:

“But my good fellah, we were told positively that travelers going from the Yosemite east must get on the train here.”

“And so they do,” George said, laying his hand on Selden's shoulder.

“By Jove! we've got 'em!” ejaculated Gunther.

“Here they are,” Selden said, with radiant face, seizing hold of George's hands, which he shook emphatically.

“Look here! let me have one of his hands, won't you?” said Gunther; “what an all-absorbing fellow you continue to be, I am sure.”

While George gave a hand to each, he told the porter he wanted a compartment, if such was to be had.

“There are none disengaged, sir, except some of those little ones at the end of the car, which no one wants; but you can have a section if you like,” the porter replied.

“I have that already; but the ladies with me want a good, large compartment.”

“We have one which we will be most happy to place at your service,” Gunther said.

“And rob you of it. That wouldn't be fair.”

“Yes it would, as we don't care for it. And it is very nice and private, and the ladies should have it,” Selden said, warmly.

As the section which George's tickets assigned to him was the very next to the apartment in question, it was very clear to Mr. Selden that no arrangement could have been more fortunate, and he said so.

The three then went to bring the ladies to their room.

Mercedes pleaded a headache, and George knew that she wished to be alone, to have a cry all to herself, as most girls would, when their sweethearts have just left them. So he said to Elvira:

“Mercedes had better lie down for a while. If she sleeps she will feel better.”

“I think so; I will join you presently,” Elvira answered. And hearing this the gentlemen retired.

Mercedes took her hat and gloves and cloak off, and sat at the window to enjoy her misery in a thorough womanly fashion. She fixed her eyes on the far-off, flying wall of verdure, seeing nothing, not even the tall trees which, close by, indulged in such grotesque antics, as if forgetting their stately dignity only to amuse her—making dancing dervishes of themselves, and converting that portion of the Pacific slope into a flying gymnasium to perform athletic exercises, rushing on madly, or even turning somersaults for her recreation.

Elvira left her alone with her thoughts, and silently devoted herself to unpacking their satchels, arranging their toilet things, traveling shawls and night-dresses and comfortable slippers all in their proper places. She then took her hat off, and tying a large black veil over her head (Spanish fashion), told her sister to sleep if she could, and not to cry, for, after all, Clarence would soon be in New York.

“Do you really think so?” said Mercedes' sad voice.

“Of course, I do. Clarence is too energetic and too much in love to be kept away.”

“But mamma—you know mamma's feelings.”

“Which will be entirely changed when she hears that Clarence is no squatter. Leave all that to papa. Come, give me a kiss, and if you can't sleep, put a veil over your head and come out. I am going to join the gentlemen.”

“Yes, darling, you go; but at present I'd rather sit here by the window.”

And she sat there, but the sad blue orbs saw nothing—for her mental gaze was fixed on that other flying train, that was rushing away, carrying her beloved with such frightful rapidity. She felt, she knew, Clarence was sitting by a car window, thinking of her, gazing blankly at his misery.

And so he was.

It is to be feared that his misery would have been greatly intensified had he caught a glimpse of Messrs. Gunther and Selden, as they rushed past him on their eastward journey. This aggravation, however, was spared him. And, as when he arrived at San Francisco, Charles Gunther and his three companions had already left for Oregon, Clarence remained, for the present, in blissful ignorance of the whereabouts of those two persistent young gentlemen, traveling so near Mercedes.

But could magician of old have shown to him in enchanted mirror the image of his beloved, he would have read in those expressive eyes how sadly she felt his absence.

When she had sat there, motionless, for two hours, Elvira came to tell her to get ready for dinner, which she declined doing, saying that she was not a bit hungry. And so the day passed—the night came—and she did not gladden the hearts of their traveling companions, by letting them see her that day. Next day the morning hours also passed. She had her breakfast in her room.

Mr. Selden began to feel piqued and Mr. Gunther nervous. They and Elvira were playing a three-handed game of casino; George was elsewhere, talking to an acquaintance he had met on the train.

Presently, softly and unexpectedly, the sliding-door of the compartment moved, and Mercedes stood beside Mr. Selden, sweet as a rosebud, smiling in her most bewitching way. The blood mounted to Mr. Selden's temples, and those of Mr. Gunther's assumed the same hue. Then she, of course, blushed also—for she could never see any one blush without doing the very same thing herself.

Elvira alone kept her composure, and said: “Why, Baby! I am so glad you feel better. Come, take a hand, for these gentlemen will cut your sister's throat, or she theirs. We are having a fierce battle.”

“All right. Will you have me for a partner, Mr. Gunther? I warn you that I am a very poor player,” said Mercedes.

“I'll have you for a partner, Miss Mercedes, on any terms, and be most happy to do so,” said Mr. Gunther, with more emphasis than the occasion required.

“That being the case, I am ready,” said she, sitting by her sister, thereby being diagonally opposite to Mr. Gunther.

From that time the five travelers were constantly together, and the days passed delightfully for all during the entire journey, especially so to Gunther and Selden. They had no occasion to complain of Mercedes for staying away. She most amiably took part in all their games and other amusements, their walks while waiting at stations, their conversations during the sentimental and delightful twilight hours. She had found that both young gentlemen were a most excellent protection against one another, as neither one was ever willing to go leaving her alone with the other. As for ardent loving looks, she knew that the best way of eluding them was by having recourse to her little trick of dropping her gaze, as if she must look down for something missing near by. That little trick came to her from sheer timidity and bashfulness long ago. In fact, she was unconscious of it, until Corina Holman had told her that whenever Clarence Darrell was present she became sly, and did not dare to look at people squarely in the face—that she was the veriest hypocrite. Thus she learned that her bashful timidity had been entirely misunderstood, but she was also made aware that she had accidentally discovered how to avoid looks which were best not to meet—best to avoid by simply dropping her gaze. As her long, curly lashes veiled her eyes with a silken fringe, they could hide under that cover like two little cherubs crouching under their own wings.