s pillow. The sound of hurrying feet
was heard upon the board walks in front of the Eyrie-cliff; many voices,
youthful voices, swelled the chorus that told of the regiments of
children now hastening to school. From dreamland Paul returned by easy
stages to the work-a-day world. He arose, donned a trailing garment with
angel sleeves and a large crucifix embroidered in scarlet upon the
breast--that robe made of him a cross between a Monk and a
Marchioness--slipped his feet into sandals and entered the larger
chamber which was at once living-room and library. He opened the
shutters in the deep bay window and greeted the day with the silent
solemnity of a fire-worshipper; gave drink to his potted palms and ferns
and flowering plants; let his eye wander leisurely over the titles of
his books; lingered a little while over his favorites and patted some of
them fondly on the back. Taking a small key from its nail by the door he
opened the mail box without, carrying his letters to his writing table
and leaving them there unopened. He loved to speculate as to whom the
writers were and what they may have said to him. This piqued his
curiosity, and tided him over a scant breakfast at an inexpensive but
fly-blown restaurant where he was wont to eat or make a more or less
brave effort to eat whenever he had the wherewithal to settle for the
same. Breakfast over and gone the young man returned to his Eyrie, and
in due course was at his writing table, and at work upon the weekly
article that had been appearing in the Sunday issue of one of the
popular Dailies for an indefinite period, and the price of which had on
several occasions kept him from becoming a conspicuous object of
charity.

Having written himself out for the day, as he was apt to in a few hours,
he wandered down to the Club for a bit of refreshment which was sure to
be forthcoming, for his friends there were ever ready to dine him, or
more frequently to wine him, merely for the pleasure of his company.

[Illustration: San Francisco in 1856]

So the afternoon waned and the dinner hour approached; fortunately this
hour was usually bespoken and for a little while at least he was lapped
in luxury. On his way home he was very apt to turn in at the wicker
gates of a typical German Rathskellar where he was unmolested; where the
blustering pipes of a colossal orchestrion brayed through an aria from
Trovatore with more sound than sentiment and all unmindful of
modulation.

He