He looked up at the two-story dwelling house before us, let his eyes
wander down the row of modest residences and linger on the pavements
where a tattered newsboy was shying stones at a stray cat; then his
glance came back to my face with a smile. "My belief in your veracity is
unlimited. I uncover." He stood for an instant with bared head. "Just
when did this sanctification take place, was it before the fire or--"

"It was on October 9th, 1776," I tried to speak impressively, "the year
the Colonies made their Declaration of Independence. The procession
began over there at the Presidio," I pointed to the north. "A
brown-robed friar carrying an image of St. Francis led the little
company of men, women and children over the shifting sand-dunes to this
very spot where a rude church had been erected. Its sides were of mud
plastered over a palisade wall of willow poles and its ceiling a leaky
roof of tule rushes but it was the beginning of a great undertaking and
Father Paloú elevated the cross and blessed the site and all knelt to
render thanks to the Lord for His goodness."

"But I thought you said the church still existed." His eyes again sought
the row of dwelling houses.

"This was only for temporary use and later was pulled down. Six years
after the fathers arrived, a larger and more substantial church was
built one block farther east. But before you see that you must get into
the spirit of the past by imagining a square of four blocks lying
between Fifteenth and Seventeenth streets and Church and Guerrero, swept
clean of these modern structures and filled with mission buildings. At
the time when you New Englanders were pushing the Indians farther and
farther into the wilderness, killing and capturing them, we Californians
were drawing them to our missions with gifts and friendship. While you