Three children have been born to us in California, and have made our home a paradise. The two elder are sons, named severally for my father and theirs, Reginald and Wardour. The last is a daughter, a second Mabel, beautiful as the first, and strangely resembling her, though of a stronger frame and more vital nature. She is the sunshine of the house, the idol of her father and brothers, who _all_ are mine, as well as the fair child of seven summers herself. Mrs. Austin presides, in imagination, over our nursery, but, in reality, is only its most honored occasional visitor, her chamber being distinct, and my own rule being absolute therein, with the aid of a docile adjunct. Ernest Wentworth, our adopted son--so-called for want of any other name--is the standard of perfection in mind and morals, for the imitation of the rest of the band of children. He has gained the usual stature of young men of his age, with a slight defect of curvature of the shoulders that does but confirm his scholarly appearance. His face, with its magnificent brow, piercing dark eyes, pale complexion, and clustering hair, is striking, if not handsome. He has graduated as a student of law, and, should his health permit, will, I cannot doubt, distinguish himself as a forensic orator. George Gaston and Madge have promised a visit to the Vernons; but I cannot help hoping, rather without than _for_ any good reason, that they will not come! I love them both, yet I feel they are mismated, even if happy. My husband is noted among his peers for his liberal and noble-minded use of a princely income, and his great public spirit. He unites agricultural pursuits with his profession, and has placed, among other managers, my old ally, Christian Garth and his family, on the ranch he holds nearest to San Francisco. Thence, at due seasons, seated on a wain loaded with the fruits of their labor, the worthy pair come up to the city to trade, and never fail in their tribute to our house. The immigrant possessed of worth and industry, however poor; the adventurous man, who seeks by the aid of his profession alone to establish himself in California; the artist, the man of letters, all meet a helping hand from Wardour Wentworth, who in his charities observes but one principle of action, one hope of recompense, both to be found in the teachings of philanthropy: "As I do unto you, go you and do unto others." This is his maxim. Our lives have been strangely happy and successful up to this hour, so that sometimes my emotional nature, too often in extremes, trembles beneath its burden of prosperity, and conjures up strange phantoms of dark possibilities, that send me, tearful and depressed, to my husband's arms, to find strength and courage in his rare and calm philosophy and equipoise.