Here another funny thing happened. Everything funny seems to happen at the end of our trip. The driver (a new one, not the one of yesterday) after a long silence, and having changed a piece of straw he was chewing from one side of his mouth to the other many times, made up his mind to speak. I did not speak first, though I longed to, as I am told it is not wise to speak to the man at the wheel, especially when the wheel happens to be a California coach and six horses. "A beautiful day," the driver ventured. "Yes," I said, "it is one of the most beautiful days I have ever seen." He, after a long pause, said, "Was you in the hotel parlor last night?" "Yes," I said, "I was." "Did you hear that lady sing?" "Yes, I did. Did you?" "You bet I did. I was standing with the rest of the folks out on the piazza." How curious it would be to hear a wild Western unvarnished, unprejudiced judgment of myself! "What did you think of her singing?" I asked my companion. He replied by asking, "Have you ever heard a nightingale, ma'm?" "Oh yes, many times," I answered, wondering what he would say next. "Wal, I guess some of them nightingales will have to take a back seat when she sings." I actually blushed with pride. I considered this was the greatest compliment I had ever had. We arrived safely, without any adventure, at Sacramento, where John Cadwalader left us, and the rest of the party continued as far as Chicago together, where we bade each other good-by, each going his different way. CAMBRIDGE, _June, 1877_. My dear Sister,--Sarah Bernhardt is playing in Boston now, much to Boston's delight. I went to see her at the Tremont House, where she is staying. She looked enchanting, and was dressed in her most characteristic manner, in a white dress with a border of fur. Fancy, in this heat! She talked about Paris, her latest successes, asked after Nina, and finally--what I wanted most to know--her impressions of America.