most had played at it.

This cottage stood there--I think I will say _sat_ there, it looked so
perfectly resigned,--and no doubt commanded a rent quite out of
proportion to its size. It had its shaky veranda and its French windows,
and was lined with canvas; for there was not a trowel full of plaster in
it. The ceiling bellied and flapped like an awning when the wind soughed
through the clapboards; and the walls sometimes visibly heaved a sigh;
but they were covered with panelled paper quite palatial in texture and
design, and that is one thing that made those interiors surprising.

At the windows the voluminous lace draperies were almost overpowering.
Satin lambrequins were festooned with colossal cord and tassels of
bullion. A plate-glass mirror as wide as the mantel reflected the
Florentine gilt carving of its own elaborate frame. There were bronzes
on the mantel, and tall vases of Sévres, and statuettes of bisque
brilliantly tinted. At the two sides of the mantel stood pedestals of
Italian marble surmounted by urns of the most graceful and elegant
proportions, and profusely ornamented with sculptured fruits and
flowers. There was the old-fashioned square piano in its carven case,
and cabinets from China or East India; also a lacquered Japanese screen,
marble-topped tables of filigreed teek, brackets of inlaid ebony. Curios
there were galore. Some paintings there were, and these rocked softly
upon the gently-heaving walls. As for the velvet carpet, it was a bed of
gigantic roses that might easily put to the blush the prime of summer in
a queen's garden.

I well remember another home in San Francisco, one that possessed for me
the strongest attraction. It was bosomed in the sandhills south of
Market Street,--I know not between what streets, for they had all been