"But she could not play in public," said the mother.
Then they must take new views of the town.
"There is no more Old San Francisco," Victor declared. "One would hardly credit the changes if he were told."
There were streets now running out to Islais Creek, where the marsh was being filled up. And the queer little corner, where the streets ran a block or two in every direction by Channel Creek, still held some adobe houses. Some day the Southern Pacific Railroad would run along here and build its immense freight houses and stations. Market Street was creeping along. Sandhills had been toppled over into depressions. Great buildings had been reared. Kearny Street was running up over Telegraph Hill. The lower end was given over to handsome stores, that displayed goods which could stand comparison with any other city.
Telegraph Hill was to be lowered, even after this revolution, that had left the topmost crest fifty or sixty feet above sea level. It had a rather curious aspect now. Some of the quaint old houses had been lowered, and smart new ones formed a striking contrast. A few scrubby oaks, firmly rooted, had defied removal, it would seem, and were left in sandy backyards. The beautiful pine was gone, the old house had not been worth any trouble, and so had shared destruction.
"I can't make it seem real," Laverne said piteously, with tears in her eyes. "There is no more Old San Francisco."
There was no more little girl either.
But farther down the aspect was more natural. Here was the new Presbyterian Church, where she had seen the old one burn down. And here was Saint Mary's, with its fine spire still unfinished. The Mission on Vallejo Street, and St. Patrick's in Happy Valley, and the fine school of Mission de Dolores, they had all improved, though she found some familiar features.
And the little nucleus of China Town had spread out. While the old Californian and the Spaniard relinquished the distinguishing features of the attire, the Chinaman in his blue shirt, full trousers, white stockings, and pointed toes set way above the soles, and the black pigtail wound about his head, looked just as she had seen them in her childhood, and they had not grown appreciably older, or had they always been old?
Mr. Dawson had died, and his wife had retired to a handsome private dwelling, and kept her carriage. The Folsom House was much grander, and Dick, a "young blood," whom girls were striving in vain to captivate. Mrs. Folsom wanted to hear about her father's death, and if her stepmother had lived up to her promises.