A Little Girl in Old San Francisco

by Amanda M. Douglas

"I never saw the note—I never heard. Oh, did you think I could forget an old friend when all things were so strange and I so lonely?"

Now the lashes were gemmed with tears. He longed to kiss them away. An infinite pity stirred his heart.

"Have you been lonely and unhappy? Forgive me, but I thought of you as gay and full of pleasure. I have not been much in ladies' society. I have made some fine friends among men, and it has been study, study, but I have achieved most of my plans and pleased the best of fathers. Last summer with some friends I made a walking tour of Switzerland. This summer I return home. I like America best. And how San Francisco will look after four years' absence! Nothing of the kind could happen in this staid old world. I wonder sometimes if I have not dreamed part of it. And if I have not dreamed about you! Oh, what a brute I am. Come and sit down and let us talk it all over. And your poor uncle—what do you hear from him?"

She wiped the tears from her eyes and in a broken voice said: "Nothing."

"Oh, poor child!" All his heart went out to her. He had thought nothing of love before. He had been but a boy, but he knew he loved her now with a man's love, and with a sudden resolve he determined to take her back with him even if it had to be his wife without his parents' blessing and God speed.

"No one hears, I believe," she replied when she had recovered her voice. "Only—I promised to come back to him when I was twenty-one and free, and he will be waiting for me, I know."

Then this new relationship had not been happy. He had besought Miss Holmes to tell him about it, but she had been very non-committal. He gathered from that she had not been favorably impressed with either Mrs. or Mr. Westbury, although under the circumstances there was nothing else to be done.

When they had recovered self-possession a little they began to talk of the old times, the old days that had been full of delight, it appeared, now touched by the enchanter, memory. The first time they had danced together when she was a little girl, his Saturday at the old house, and the ride they had taken down the coast. Snippy, and the verses they had tried to make for the dead Balder. How he had hated to tell her he was going away for four long years, and how glad he had been to get Isola's extravagant letters, "for you know she simply adored you," he confessed, with a smile.

"It has all changed," she said mournfully, "There will be no more San Francisco. The hill has been lowered so much, and our old house has gone with it. Olive was married in the autumn, you know."

"And Howard is turning into a fine young business fellow, father writes. Uncle Personette may well be proud of his children, who have had the kindest of stepmothers. I always liked Aunt Grace and your Miss Holmes. Mother thinks she couldn't do without her. And it's queer," laughing a little, "she declined a very nice offer of marriage that a friend of father's made her, the captain of a vessel going up and down to the Isthmus. She was very fond of you."