Among his guests whom I met almost daily was Mr. Blaine, the Speaker of the House of Representatives, and the sworn foe of England. There was no such Anglophobe in all the United States and though perhaps it was not in the best of taste to show his antipathy in our presence, he lost no opportunity of doing so. However, I was determined not to be drawn, and so gradually he became tamer. At the last, when after a few days we said good-bye, he said, “Well, Mr. Mitford, there are at any rate two things in England of which you may be proud. A House of Commons in which the courtesy and self-restraint are a model for the world, and a Press which never is inquisitorial in men’s private affairs.” Soon after I got back to England the editor of a “Society Paper” was put in prison for libel, and the House of Commons had started upon its all-night sittings under the lead of Mr. O’Donnell, Mr. Biggar, and others. I should hardly like, as an Englishman, to write down the opinion expressed by some of my American friends upon Mr. Speaker Blaine. It would be taking a leaf out of his book. One of our drives was to the country house of Mr. D. O. Mills, the father-in-law of that most distinguished Ambassador, Mr. Whitelaw Reid. Mr. Mills’ house and surroundings were as beautiful as might be expected in the midst of some of the most lovely scenery in the world. He was the President of the Bank of California, and no man was more respected. He had a great collection of modern pictures, many of which were old acquaintances of previous years in the Royal Academy, and elsewhere. Kind, genial, and courteous, he made us very welcome in his beautiful home. His daughter, at whose house I saw him again when she was Ambassadress in London, was then a very little girl in short petticoats. Not long after I left San Francisco came the tragedy of the Bank of California. The old story, mismanagement, a crash, ruin. Mr. Mills, who in the meantime had given up his position in the bank, stepped into the breach, went heroically into harness again, and pulled round the concern. Poor Ralston could not face the shame. He died of a broken heart, a suicide in the foul water of the docks of San Francisco. All California rang with the praise of Mr. Mills and admiration for his self-sacrifice. A grateful American gentleman once said: “You see that gentleman there—well, that’s D. O. Mills. He’s worth millions upon millions of dollars, and there is not a dirty coin among them.” A grand tribute! Before sailing again westward until the furthest East should be reached, it was a solemn duty to make a pilgrimage to the Yosemite Valley. What lover of trees could leave California without having seen the great Wellingtonias? The trip is probably made much easier now, but forty years ago a great deal of red dust, as fine and all-penetrating as the black dust of a sand storm from the desert of Gobi, at Peking, had to be swallowed before reaching the goal.