rocks, the burning sun, the snakes, the scorpions, the
centipedes, the Indians and the Ehrenberg graveyard; and so the tears
flowed, and I did not try to stop them; they were tears of joy.

The custom officers wanted to confiscate the great bundles of Mexican
cigarettes they found in my trunk, but "No," I told them, "they were for
my own use." They raised their eyebrows, gave me one look, and put them
back into the trunk.

My beloved California relatives met us, and took care of us for a
fortnight, and when I entered a Pullman car for a nine days' journey to
my old home, it seemed like the most luxurious comfort, although I had
a fourteen-months-old child in my arms, and no nurse. So does everything
in this life go by comparison.

Arriving in Boston, my sister Harriet met me at the train, and as
she took little Harry from my arms she cried: "Where did you get that
sunbonnet? Now the baby can't wear that in Boston!"

Of course we were both thinking hard of all that had happened to me
since we parted, on the morning after my wedding, two years before, and
we were so overcome with the joy of meeting, that if it had not been for
the baby's white sunbonnet, I do not know what kind of a scene we might
have made. That saved the situation, and after a few days of rest and
necessary shopping, we started for our old home in Nantucket. Such a
welcome as the baby and I had from my mother and father and all old
friends!

But I saw sadness in their faces, and I heard it in their voices, for no
one thought I could possibly live. I felt, however, sure it was not too
late. I knew the East wind's tonic would not fail me, its own child.

Stories of our experiences and misfortunes were eagerly listened to, by
the family, and betwixt sighs and laughter they declared they were going
to fill some boxes which should contain everything necessary for comfort
in those distant places. So one room in our old house was set apart for
this; great boxes were brought, and day by day various articles, useful,
ornamental, and comfortable, and precious heirlooms of silver and glass,
were packed away in them. It was the year of 1876, the year of the great
Centennial, at Philadelphia. Everybody went, but it had no attractions
for me. I was happy enough, enjoying the health-giving air and the
comforts of an Eastern home. I wondered that I had ever complained about
anything there, or wished to leave that blissful spot.

The poorest person in that place