"My boy, my best beloved," said the old man, with a sob and a checking of breath, holding his son close to his breast.

"Father, why are you so gray?" Clarence asked.

"Because I did you a great wrong. Because I murdered the Don, and he was the best man I ever saw." When Darrell said this he completely lost his self-control and wept like a child. Clarence wept with him, for he felt deeply Don Mariano's death, but thought he must speak kindly to his father.

"You did not murder him; don't think that," he said.

"Yes, I did. My wickedness helped the wickedness of others to kill him.

And our wickedness combined brought infinite misery upon this innocent family. But a merciful God brought you back, and I know you will devote your life to repair as much as it is possible the wrong your father did.

I know you will be a good husband, but for _my sake_, also, I beg you to be a devoted son to the widowed lady whom I have injured so frightfully.

A wrong legislation authorized _us squatters_, sent us, to the land of these innocent, helpless people to rob them. A wrong legislation killed the Texas Pacific, and such legislation is the main cause of the Don's death. But I, too, helped the wrong-doers."

"Don't blame yourself so much," Clarence remonstrated gently, trying to soothe his father. "George and Lizzie told me that all the family believe that the disappointment at the failure of the Texas Pacific was what killed Don Mariano. It preyed upon his mind; it saddened, worried and sickened him until it utterly undermined his health and broke down his nervous system. It did the same with Mr. Mechlin. So, you see, those who defeated the Texas Pacific are to blame for the death of these two most excellent men, but not yourself."

"Yes, I am. No man can injure his fellow-man, and then shift the blame on some one else's shoulders, because others had a share in the wrong done. Each man must stand and bear his proportion of blame. I could and should have prevented the settlers from destroying the Don's cattle. If I had done so, he would not have been obliged to take them all at once.

He could have sent them in small bands, but he was afraid of the murderous rifles of _my friends_. So the poor, dumb animals perished in the snow. But this was not the worst; the saddest was yet to come.

Victoriano lost his health, and the Don lost his life. The good, the best of men, was right when, in his dying moments, he said: '_The sins of our legislators brought me to this_.' That was a truth uttered by a just and noble soul as it passed away. Still, I must feel I am individually to blame for the sorrow brought upon this family. I know that if the railroad had been built the Don could have recuperated his fortune, but yet my share of wrong-doing stands there all the same; I must bear it myself. If I had not driven you away, you could have prevented their misfortunes. I was a monster. So now I beg and entreat, for my own sake, and as a slight reparation for my cruelty, that you be kind to that lady, as kind as if you were her own child."

"I will, father; I vow I will."

"That is enough. I know you'll keep your word. Now, my boy, heaven bless you, and your father's blessing will go with you always. Now, go, and when the ceremony is to be performed, send Willie to call me."

As everything was ready, the marriage ceremony took place as soon as the priest arrived. Victoriano was brought to the parlor in an arm-chair, and managed to stand up, held by Everett and Webster. Dona Josefa wept all the time and so did her daughters, but everybody understood that memories of the sad past, but no fears for the future, caused those tears to flow.

The parting with her mother and sisters was most painful to Mercedes.

Clarence feared she would make herself ill with weeping. He put his arms around her waist and said:

"Don't be disheartened. I have been thinking that Dona Josefa and all the family had better come to San Francisco to live. If she does, I think we can persuade George to bring his family also to reside there."

Dona Josefa shook her head doubtingly, but Mercedes asked:

"Do you think George might come?"

"I do, and he can then carry out there our plan of establishing a bank.

San Diego is dead now, and will remain so for many years, but San Francisco is a good business field. So we can all locate ourselves there, and Gabriel and Tano go into business easily."

"Business without capital? See where my poor Gabriel is now," Dona Josefa answered, sadly.

"That is true, but if you will sell your rancho, they will have plenty of capital. Even at two dollars per acre, your rancho, being forty-seven thousand acres-if sold at that low figure-would bring you ninety-four thousand dollars."

"But who, who will buy mortgaged land, full of squatters, and without a patent, in this dead place?"

"I will. I will pay you more than ninety-four thousand dollars-more than double that amount-besides paying you for the lost cattle, which will be no more than what is right."

"Oh, no, I couldn't agree to that, but as for selling the land, if my children are willing, I shall be, for this place is too full of sad memories, and will be sadder yet if I cannot have my children with me.

When Gabriel and Victoriano get well, talk to them about buying the rancho, though I don't think you ought to pay any such high price. You are too generous to us."

"Indeed, I am not. Don't forget I am a money-making Yankee. I think four-or even three-dollars per acre is a high price for land in this county _now_, but I can wait years, and then I shall double the price paid now. So, you see, I am not a bit generous. I am trying to make money out of you."

"Talk to the boys. See what George and Gabriel say," Dona Josefa said, smiling sadly at Clarence's wily argument and earnest manner.

The last adieux were said, but the parting was less painful to Mercedes, with the new hope held out by Clarence of a probability of being reunited soon in San Francisco.

When Clarence and Mercedes arrived at their home they found that George and Lizzie had propped up Gabriel with pillows, and he was sitting up to receive his sister. From that day he began to improve slowly but perceptibly.

The letters from home spoke of Victoriano's marked improvement, but still his malady was not cured; so Clarence proposed that Dona Josefa, the two girls and Tano should come up immediately. She could then make up her mind whether she would like to make San Francisco her home, and the change of climate would perhaps do Victoriano good. The idea was highly approved by all, and that same evening Mercedes wrote to her mother, begging her to come and see whether she liked San Francisco for a home; that she and Clarence were going to Europe on a visit in the fall, and she wanted to leave her mamma and sisters and brothers all together; that George and Gabriel liked the plan of selling the rancho to Clarence very much, and wanted to talk to her and Tano about it. Thus Dona Josefa was enticed and persuaded to leave the home of her joys and sorrows, where she had lived for thirty years. Carlota and Rosario were willing to go, and Tano was most anxious to find a way of making a living, for he was every day more in love with Alice, but could not think of marrying her until he knew how he was going to support a family.

Dona Josefa, Carlota and Rosario, therefore, escorted by Victoriano, found themselves, on a bright morning, in the Southern Pacific Railroad cars, on their way from Los Angeles to San Francisco. There were only about a dozen persons besides themselves on the entire train.

"I wonder why they put on so many cars. One would carry all the passengers," said Rosario.

"Half a car would be more than enough," Carlota added.

"They must lose money running empty cars," Tano observed. "I am glad of it. They were so anxious to leave San Diego out in the cold, I hope they will lose money with this road."

"Don't wish that, it is unkind, unchristian, ungenerous," said Dona Josefa, with a sigh.

"And why not? Didn't they kill our road, the Texas Pacific, to build this road? What consideration had they for us? I am glad that many years will pass before they will run crowded cars over this desert. They are old men, they won't live to see this, their pet road, with well-filled cars, running over it, and I bet on that," said Tano, exultingly.

"Perhaps they will," said Carlota.

"I know they'll not," Tano retorted, emphatically.

In the afternoon, Clarence and Mercedes met them in Oakland, and together they crossed the bay.

And now on that same night as Dona Josefa looked from her bedroom window upon the lighted city, she noticed that a large mansion near by, was very brightly illuminated, and Mercedes told her that one of the railroad kings, who had killed the Texas Pacific, lived there, and was giving a "_silver wedding_" party to the _elite_ of San Francisco. Dona Josefa sighed, and sat at the window to think.

Truly, San Francisco had been in a flutter for ten days past, and the "best society" had stretched its neck until it ached to see who got invitations for "_The Great Nob Hill Silver Wedding Ball_" of one of San Francisco's millionaires. Mrs. Grundy ascertained who were to be the best-dressed ladies, what their pedigree was, and how their money had been made, and then Mrs. Grundy went to the ball, too.

When all the elegance of San Francisco had arrived, nobly sprinkled with a Baron or two, and ornamented with a Lord and Lady and a Marquise or Count, the great millionaire proceeded to astonish his guests in the manner he had conceived to be most novel and startling.

The band struck up a wedding march, and Mr. Millionaire, with his wife leaning on his arm, proceeded to the last of an elegant _suite_ of rooms, where, under a canopy of fragrant flowers, a mock marriage ceremony was to be performed. After conducting the blushing bride to the mock altar, and the ceremony being over, the millionaire thought he would treat his guests to what he imagined to be a real hymenean oration. He prefaced his homily with what he believed to be witticisms and quotations of his own. He then thought it was time to wax eloquent and didactic, above prejudices, truly large-minded.

"But let me read to you a short, telling lesson now," he said, swelling with just pride; "I speak most particularly to the young men, to those who have yet their fortunes to make. Be not discouraged if you meet with hardships and trials. Go ahead and persevere. Look at all these luxurious appurtenances surrounding us! I might well say, look at this wealth! Look at this splendor! Well, ladies and gentlemen, sixteen years ago we were in Sacramento, so poor, that we had to put tin pans over our bed to catch the water that leaked through our roof, and keep our bed-clothes dry. I had not money enough to get a better roof over our heads," and the millionaire looked around for applause, but none came, because the guests possessed the good taste, or, perhaps, bad, which their host lacked, and were pained and mortified; they did not see the good of waking up memories of unsavory poverty. The foreign nobility was not so proud, perhaps, as they had been at the hour of receiving an invitation to all this so very newly created splendor. But the rich man, still inflated with pride, hurriedly wound up his peroration as best he could, feeling vague misgivings that he had marred the _eclat_ of his magnificent illumination shining over his costly furniture, by trying to rise above himself to make a high-minded, witty speech. "Be plucky, and persevering, and go ahead, as I did," said he to close his oration, bowing to his foreign guests.

The company scattered in couples or in groups over the luxuriously furnished and richly decorated rooms, and Mrs. Grundy hurried about everywhere to catch the comments made by the grateful guests upon "the brilliant speech of their amiable host." At the very first group she heard a young man say:

"Yes, I would be _plucky and persevering_ if I had an associate in Washington with plenty of money to bribe people so that no other railroad could be built to start competition in California."

"I could be plucky, too, if the Government had given me millions of money and more millions of acres to build two railroads, and which millions I never intended to pay back," said another.

"And for which millions you never paid taxes," added another.

"Taxes? Bah! Let the poor people pay taxes. Why should railroad magnates pay taxes when they have money to fight the law? Absurd!" said a fourth.

"Let us go and take ices; the brilliancy of our host's oration makes me thirsty."

And while all this went on in the brilliantly lighted mansion, Dona Josefa sat at her window in the dark, thinking of what "_might have been_" if those railroad men had not blighted San Diego's prosperity.

Her husband would have been alive, and Mr. Mechlin, also, and her sons would not have been driven to poverty and distress, and perhaps lost their health forever.