had discovered on this crowded section of commercial San Francisco a
duplicate of the old bell hung in front of the Mission San Francisco de
Asís.

"We are following El Camino Real from the Mission to the Presidio," I
reminded him.

We turned toward the shopping district, but the lure of the place made
our feet lag. We watched the people purchasing flowers at the corner,
and the little newsboys drinking from Lotta's fountain.

"A tablet," he exclaimed delightedly, examining the bronze plate
fastened to the fountain. "I didn't know you Westerners ever indulged in
such things. 'Presented to San Francisco by Lotta, 1875,'" he read.

"Little Lotta Crabtree," I explained, "the sweet singer who bewitched
the city at a time when gold was still more plentiful than flowers, and
her song was greeted by a shower of the glittering metal flung to her
feet by enthusiastic miners. But read the second tablet," I suggested.
"It was placed there with the permission of Lotta."

"Tetrazzini!" his voice rang with surprise.

"Can you picture this place surging with people as it was on Christmas
night five years ago, when Tetrazzini sang to San Francisco?" I asked.
"The crowd began to gather long before the appointed time--the wealthy
banker from his spacious home on Pacific Heights, the grimy laborer from
the Potrero and the little newsboy with the badge of his profession
slung over his shoulder. Flushed with excitement, the courted debutante
drew back to give her place to a tired factory girl and close to the