direction indicated to where the outstretched arms of a
white wooden cross were silhouetted against the sky.

"If I were in Europe," he continued, "I should call it a shrine, for the
sides of the hill on which it stands are seamed with paths running from
the net-work of houses to the foot of the cross."

"It is a shrine at which all San Francisco worships. Wrapped in mystery
it stands, for when it was placed there no one knows. It comes to us out
of the past--a token left by the Spanish padres. Three times it has
fallen into decay, but always loving hands have reached forward to
restore it, and as long as San Francisco shall last, a cross will rise
from the summit of Lone Mountain."

"The Spanish padres!" The ring in his voice bespoke his interest. "Are
there any other relics left?"

I pointed to the level section below. "Do you see that low red roof
almost hidden by its towering neighbors? That is the old Mission San
Francisco de Asis, colloquially called Dolores, from the little rivulet
on whose bank it was built."

Through his field glasses he scrutinized the expanse of substantial
houses and paved streets. "I can't find the rivulet," he announced.

"Of course you can't, you stupid man!" I laughed. "If you'll use your
imagination instead of your glasses you will see it easily. The stream
arose, we are told, between the summits of Twin Peaks, and tumbling down
the hill-side, made its way east, emptying into the Laguna."

"I don't see a laguna!" Again the skeptic surveyed the field of roofs.

"Put down your glasses and close your eyes," I commanded. "When you open
them the houses from here to the bay will have disappeared and the
ground will be covered with a carpet of velvety green, dappled here and
there by groves of oak trees and relieved by patches of bright poppies."

"And fields of yellow mustard," he supplemented.

"No, your imagination is too vivid. The padres brought the mustard seed
later. A little south of the present mission," I continued, "you will
see a group of willows bending to drink the crystal waters of the Arroyo
de los Dolores, so named because Anza and his followers discovered it on
the day of our Mother of Sorrows, and to the east is the shining
laguna."

"It's clear as a San Francisco fog," he laughed. "I'd like to take a
look at the old building! Is there a car line?"

"Let's follow in the footsteps of the padres," I begged. "They used
often to climb this hill and it isn't very fa