A Little Girl in Old San Francisco

by Amanda M. Douglas

"Oh, not very, I think. But she won't ride, which the doctor thinks would be good for her, and she goes about in that wheeling chair when she ought to walk, and lies in the hammock. Mamacita would like her to be gay and bright and entertaining to the young men, as Isabel is, because all girls are expected to marry. Mamacita was only fifteen when papa met her at a ball at New Orleans. That must be a very gay place, without the crime and rough life that San Francisco has. I do hope sometime we will be civilized, and not have to take in the off-scourings of all lands. I want it to be a splendid city, like Rome on its seven hills. And there is the grand sea outlook that Rome did not have, though she made herself mistress of the seas."

The little girl watched him with such intelligent eyes that it was a great satisfaction to talk to her. She was different from any one he had known. For those of the Southern blood were coquettes from their very cradle, and wanted to talk of pleasure only. Of course, she was being brought up by a great traveller, even if he had never risen higher than mate of a trading vessel. And then the eastern women were somehow different.

Elena ran on, and announced with a shout "that they were coming." The porch was set out with little tables. Mrs. Personette was the matron of the one that had her daughters and the two young men. Mrs. Savedra took charge of Elena and Isola, and left Miss Holmes to Laverne and Victor.

There were flowers and fruits, dainty summer viands, and much gay chatting, since they were near enough to interchange with each other. Laverne was very enthusiastic about the aviary.

"Oh, you must go out and see it," she said eagerly.

Victor was thinking of the great difference between Miss Holmes and Mam'selle Claire. Of course, she could talk about musicians, she seemed to have them at her tongue's end, and some French writers. He was not of an age to appreciate them; young, energetic souls were quoting Carlyle, even Emerson had crept out here on the Western coast. In a way there was a good deal of politics talked, and a rather bitter feeling against the East for turning so much of the cold shoulder to them. Even the suggestion of war with England over the northern boundary did not seem very stirring to these people. It was their own advancement, the appreciation of all they held in their hands, the wonderful possibilities of the Oriental trade. And though it seemed quite necessary to study French, when there were so many French citizens, the young fellow considered the literature rather effeminate. But Miss Holmes was conversant with the march of the Carthaginian general over the Alps, and later, that of Napoleon, and the newer scheme that had set their wisdom at naught, and that the railroad was a necessity if the Union was not to part in the middle. He liked Miss Holmes' admiration of California. Mam'selle Claire thought it rude and rough.

There was lounging in the hammocks afterward, the sun was too hot to drive about. Isola went in the room presently, and played some soft, low chords on the organ. Laverne crept in, enchanted. She liked the voluntaries in church when they had no grand crushes in them. Victor was talking with Miss Holmes, so she slipped away, for Elena had found the quiet irksome, and there were always dogs to play with. The dogs she thought better company than most people.

Laverne had never been near an organ. This was not a very large one, but sweet-toned for parlor use. She crept nearer and nearer, and almost held her breath, while the tears came to her eyes. It seemed the sad story of some one, the story the ocean waves told at times, or the wind in the trees, when twilight was falling, and now it was darkness, and you could almost hear the stars pricking through the blue. Then one faint call of a bird, and a far-off answer, and lower, lower, until the sound wandered away and was lost.

"Oh," she breathed, "oh!"

"You like it?"