At San Pedro, the port of Los Angeles, we embarked for San Diego.

It was a heavenly night.

I sat on deck enjoying the calm sea, and listening to the romantic story of Lieutenant Philip Reade, then stationed at San Diego.

He was telling the story himself, and I had never read or heard of anything so mysterious or so tragic.
Then, too, aside from the story, Mr.Reade was a very good-looking and chivalrous young army officer.

He was returning to his station in San Diego, and we had this pleasant opportunity to renew what had been a very slight acquaintance.
The calm waters of the Pacific, with their long and gentle swell, the pale light of the full moon, our steamer gliding so quietly along, the soft air of the California coast, the absence of noisy travellers, these made a fit setting for the story of his early love and marriage, and the tragic mystery which surrounded the death of his young bride.
All the romance which lived and will ever live in me was awake to the story, and the hours passed all too quickly.
But a cry from my little boy in the near-by deck stateroom recalled me to the realities of life and I said good-night, having spent one of the most delightful evenings I ever remember.
Mr.Reade wears now a star on his shoulder, and well earned it is, too.
I wonder if he has forgotten how he helped to bind up my little boy's finger which had been broken in an accident on the train from San Francisco to Los Angeles?
or how he procured a surgeon for me on our arrival there, and got a comfortable room for us at the hotel?
or how he took us to drive (with an older lady for a chaperon), or how he kindly cared for us until we were safely on the boat that evening?
If I had ever thought chivalry dead, I learned then that I had been mistaken.
San Diego charmed me, as we steamed, the next morning, into its shining bay.