There was one thing that the gay New Yorkers, under Mrs. Mechlin's chaperoning, had to do before they left the capital. They must make an excursion across the Potomac to Arlington, and visit the tomb of Washington. Patriotism, she said, imposed this duty upon them, which must be fulfilled with due reverence.

“Therefore,” Mrs. Mechlin added, “they would have a picnic under the glorious trees in the Arlington grounds.”

“Let our libations be on that sacred spot,” said George; “we will pour wine on the grave of Washington—that is, we will go close to it and drink it.”

“You mean that we will drink the wine and rub the bottle devoutly upon the monument, as the Irish woman did when she cured her rheumatism,” Bob Gunther added.

“It is awful how unpatriotic and irreverent are the young men nowadays,” Miss Gunther said.

“Yes; it makes me weep,” added Arthur Selden, blinking.

There would be a day or two before the picnic, and Mercedes told George she wanted to go to the dome of the Capitol, and see Washington City from that elevated place.

“The little puss shall have her wish,” George said, and on the following day all the party drove again to the Capitol, and walked through labyrinths of dark corridors leading into committee rooms or may-be into solemn judicial halls, where justice sat holding the scales in terrific silence. Emerging from the cool, musty air of the lower halls, they again visited the upper rooms and galleries, which Elvira and Mercedes liked better than on their former visits. Now all ascended to the highest point they could go, and their exertions were amply rewarded by the pleasure of seeing the beautiful panorama at their feet. Washington City has been viewed and reviewed, and too minutely described to be considered any longer interesting to Eastern people, but to our Californians the view of that city of proud and symmetric proportions, with its radiating avenues lost in diminishing distances, its little triangular parks and haughty edifices, all making a picturesque ensemble, was most pleasing and startling.

With Clarence by her side, Mercedes looked carefully at the city that like a magnificent picture lay there beneath them. She wished to carry it photographed in her memory.

The picnic to Arlington was much enjoyed by all. Mercedes would have preferred to walk over the grounds of Mount Vernon with Clarence alone, for her love was of that pure character which longs to associate the cherished object with every thought and feeling having its source in our highest faculties. She thought Mount Vernon ought to be visited reverently, and she knew Clarence would not laugh at her for thinking so. But, alas! those other young gentlemen had no such thoughts. They were in high glee, determined to have fun, and enjoy it; and though Mercedes and Miss Gunther told them they were behaving like vandals, such rebukes only increased their merriment, which continued even after they recrossed the Potomac.

Mr. Mechlin's party had at last to tear itself away from Washington, and hurry to New York, for the “charity ball” was to come off in a few days; then the Liederkranz and the Purim balls would follow—all in the month of February—and Mrs. Mechlin wished that Elvira and Mercedes should see them all. They had been at masked balls in Washington at the house of a Senator and of a foreign minister, but Mrs. Mechlin said that no masked balls in America could or did equal those given in New York at the Academy of Music, consequently it became an absolute necessity that these two young ladies should see those grand affairs. Moreover, she was one of the matrons of the charity ball, and her presence was indispensable to attend to their management.

A special car was again in readiness, and the Mechlin party occupied it one morning at eight o'clock. The party was now increased by the addition of six ladies and eight gentlemen from Washington, who were going to attend the charity ball and Liederkranz. The train was in motion, going out of the city limits, accelerating its speed as it plunged into the woods beyond. George and Clarence sat at one end of the car, separate from the company, looking at the Capitol, as it seemed to retreat, flying with receding celerity. The woods were beginning to intercept its view at times—the dome would disappear and reappear again and again above the surrounding country.

Mr. Mechlin joined the two young men, saying to them, as he turned the seat in front, and sat facing them: “You are watching the receding Capitol. I was doing the same. I wonder whether your thoughts were like mine in looking at that proud edifice?”

“I think my thoughts were about the same subject, uncle. What were your thoughts, Darrell? Tell us,” George said.

“I was thinking of your father and of Don Mariano—thinking that under that white shining dome their fate would be decided perhaps, as they both have embarked so hopefully in the boat of the Texas Pacific Railroad.”

George and his uncle looked at each other as if saying, “We all were of the same mind, surely.”

Mr. Lawrence Mechlin said: “We certainly were thinking nearly alike, Mr. Darrell, with this difference, may-be, that I don't feel as hopeful as I did a few weeks ago, when you and I talked about the fair chances of the Texas Pacific as we looked at that same white dome when we were coming down. Now I am very fearful that the sad condition of the impoverished South is not going to have the weight which it deserves in the minds of this Congress. I talked with many of our law-givers about the matter, and all seemed not to realize the importance, the policy, the humanity of helping the South, and of giving to the Pacific Coast a competing railway, to get California out of the clutches of a grasping monopoly. All agree that it ought to be done, but it looks as if few put their hearts into the matter.”

“Their hearts are in their pockets, uncle, and I am afraid that after all our reluctance to believe that our Congressmen can be improperly influenced, we will have to submit—with shame and sorrow—and accept the fact that bribery has been at work, successfully. The chief of the lobby is king.”

“Not yet—not yet. It is a frightful thought. Let us not accept it yet. Let us think it is an error, but not knavery. I am coming down again, I think, before this session is over. I want to see more before I am convinced. I have my fears and my doubts, but I still hope—must hope—that our Congress has many honest men.”

“You can hope—but it will be in vain,” George said; “the money of the Central Pacific Railroad will be too much for Colonel Scott.”

“Don't be so desponding, boy.”

“I can't have any hope in this Congress. There never can be any better arguments in favor of the Texas Pacific than are now plain to everybody. So, then, if in the face of all these powerful considerations Congress turns it back and will not hear the wail of the prostrate South, or the impassionate appeals of California, now, now, when there is not one solitary reason under heaven why such appeals and entreaties should be disregarded, is there any ground to expect any better in the uncertain future? Certainly not. But still, I do not say that we should abandon all hope. For the sake of my father, who has trusted so much in the Texas Pacific, I am glad you will do all you can to help Colonel Scott.”

“I certainly shall,” Mr. Mechlin replied. Then, after a few minutes of silence, he said: “If our legislators could only be induced to adopt Herbert Spencer's view of the duties of law-givers, there would be far less misery in the United States. If they could but stop to see how clearly it stands to reason that ‘legislative deductions must be based upon fundamental morality,’ that ‘the inferences of political economy are true, only because they are discoveries by a roundabout process of what the moral law commands.’ It is an unfortunate mistake that the words ‘moral law’ are generally understood to apply practically only to private conduct; to a man's fidelity to his marriage vows; to his religious belief; this we learn at school. But these words are only loosely applied (if at all) to a man's actions as a legislator. I never heard in election times that any one expects our law-givers to base their legislation upon fundamental morality, and regard expediency as a secondary consideration. Congressmen know that they are expected to watch the material interests of their States or counties, but they do not feel any moral responsibility to see that other constituencies do not suffer injustice. Thus, if the Congressmen of one State choose to betray the rights of their constituencies, other Congressmen generally look on indifferently, or, perhaps, amused—and do not interfere any more than they would in the domestic affairs of perfect strangers. They do not seem to perceive that on the very instant in which they see that a community, or an individual, is being wronged by the neglect or design of their own representatives, that then any other Congressman should come forward to protect the betrayed community or defenseless citizen. This is clearly their duty. But it seems to be ignored by tacit consent. All Congressmen are ready to offer objections to every conceivable measure. To jump up and shout against anything, seems to be thought the proof of a man being a good legislator. Combativeness is the one faculty ever in use to offer obstructions, and thus necessary and useful legislation is foolishly retarded, and untold misery is brought upon innocent citizens. All this is a mistake. Because the ‘fundamental law of morality’ is not understood. Herbert Spencer says: ‘Now, this that we call moral law is simply a statement of the conditions of beneficial action. Originating in the primary necessities of things, it is the development of these into a series of limitations within which all conduct conducive to the greatest happiness must be confined. To overstep such limitations is to disregard these necessities of things, to fight against the constitution of nature.’ Mr. Spencer applies this axiom to the happiness of individuals, as well as of entire communities. If the principles of fundamental morality were better understood and more conscientiously respected, railroad manipulators would find it impossible to organize a lobby to defeat all laws intended to aid the Texas Pacific. But I repeat, in spite of all discouragement, I will use my best efforts to help the Texas Pacific, as I firmly believe every honest man in these United States ought to do, even when not directly interested.”

The journey to New York was accomplished safely by our party, and in good time for the charity ball. Mrs. Mechlin and Mrs. Gunther being in the list of its distinguished matrons, busied themselves about that grand affair from the day after their return until its successful finale, which was also a success pecuniarily.

To the charity ball follow the Liederkranz and the Purim.

“Are you to go masked, George?” Mrs. Mechlin asked, as they were discussing the coming ball with Miss Gunther.

“No, I think not. I think the best plan is to wear a domino and mask, as we go in with you ladies, so that you may not be recognized. Then after awhile we will leave you and go out into the vestibule and take off our masks and return unmasked.”

“But why not keep masked?” Clarence asked.

“Because we will have no fun at all with masks on. The ladies not knowing who we are will have nothing to say to us. But if they see who we are, then they'll come and talk saucily, thinking we will not recognize them. We will, though, and then the fun begins.”

“Nobody knows at home what my domino is to look like, but I think Bob will recognize my voice, and know who we all are, as he knows I am going with you,” Miss Gunther said.

“But is he not to be of our party?” Mrs. Mechlin asked.

“No; he is going to escort Miss Selden. My brother Charles will be my escort. He will be in our secret, of course. How I wish we could mystify Bob.”

“But we can't, if we speak to him, as he will recognize our voices, Mercedes and mine, by our accent immediately,” Elvira said.

“You can mimic the German way of talking English, and Mercedes can talk half French and half English, with an Irish brogue,” George suggested.

“She talks Irish brogue to perfection,” Elvira said.

“But I'll have to practice before I would speak to him,” said Mercedes.

“Practice every day—you have six days yet,” Mrs. Mechlin said.

“Do, Miss Mercedes. I would like you to fool Bob,” Miss Gunther said.

“But you must make your voice sound guttural. Your voice is naturally very musical. You must disguise it,” George suggested.

Mercedes followed his suggestion, and by carefully imitating Mrs. Mechlin's French maid (who spoke very broken English and stammered a good deal), she passed herself off for a stammering French girl, who was very talkative, in spite of the difficulty in her speech—maintaining her rÔle so well that neither Bob nor Arthur recognized her until she took off her mask. Then the faces of the two young men were a study. They both had paid most ardent compliments to her feet and hands, and had earnestly begged for the privilege of calling upon her, which she granted, promising to give the number of her house when she unmasked. She had danced with both several times, and had asked them to present George and Clarence to her. Both of whom also asked her to dance, and while dancing had a good laugh at the expense of the two deluded ones.

When she unmasked, Selden left the ball in the midst of the peals of laughter from those who understood the joke. Bob stood his ground, with the crimson blush up to his ears and eyebrows.

“The fact of the matter is, that you will attract me always, no matter under what disguise,” he whispered to Mercedes.

“Pas si bete,” she answered, stammering fearfully, and looking the prettier for it.

The Liederkranz and Purim balls were highly enjoyed also, but Mercedes, though in domino, assumed no rÔle. She was very amiable to Bob and Arthur, to heal the wound of their lacerated vanity.

The winter had now passed, and spring came—bringing to our Californians thoughts of returning home.

The sun was shining brightly on Madison Square—there had been a heavy shower that morning, in the early March—which had washed the snow off the pavements into the sewers, leaving the streets clean. Children were out with their nurses in the square, among the trees, which were trying hard to bud out, but as yet succeeded very poorly. Still, there were some little birds of sanguine temperament, chirping like good optimists about the ungainly, denuded branches, calculating philosophically on coming green leaves, though vegetation was slow to awake from its winter sleep.

Clarence, from his window at the hotel, saw that the day was bright, and hastened, in an open carriage, to take Elvira and Mercedes out for a drive in the park. They first went down for George, who had not yet left the bank.

“Did you get letters from home to-day?” Elvira asked.

“Yes; and among them a long one from Don Mariano,” Clarence replied.

“What did he say? Any good news for poor papa?”

“He has just made twenty thousand dollars, any way, in spite of squatters. And he will make sixty thousand dollars more if he will do what I asked him in my letter to-day,” Clarence said.

“How did he make twenty thousand dollars?” George asked, with a brightened look, which was reflected in the beautiful eyes of the sisters.

“By sending five hundred steers to Fred Haverly.”

“Are five hundred steers worth that much?” George asked, surprised.

“Yes—at forty dollars per head—which for large cattle is not too high a price. That is what Fred has been paying for cattle weighing in the neighborhood of four hundred pounds.”

“The best thing Don Mariano can do is to sell you all his cattle, even at half of this price,” George said.

“That is what I have been writing to him to-day. As I have to buy cattle for the mines, and I am willing to pay him a good price, he ought to sell them all to me, and when he gets his rancho clear of trespassers then buy finer breeds and restock the rancho.”

“A most excellent idea,” George said.

Robert Gunther passed by, driving his four-in-hand at a furious speed, with a very handsome girl sitting by his side. He bowed as he passed.

Mercedes laughed, saying he looked “sheepish,” and though he did not hear what she said, he blushed to the roots of his hair, and ran against a heavy carriage which slowly rolled ahead of him, loaded with four elderly ladies, who screamed terrified. This mishap only increased Bob's confusion, forcing him to check his speed.

“Do you want our assistance?” George asked, laughing.

“No, thanks. If people did not come to drive their funerals through the park, no one would run over them,” Bob said.

“And you want to kill them, so as not to have funerals without dead bodies?” Mercedes asked.

“Be merciful! Remember your name is Mercedes,” said poor, embarrassed Bob.

Whereupon Mercedes wafted a kiss to him, saying: “That goes as a peace offering.”

“Ah, yes; I understand,” said he, following her with his eyes. “A kiss to the empty air is all you will ever give me.”