like white wool were stealing in through the Golden Gate. The city was putting on its summer aspect—a gray glare, softened by the mingling of dust and haze that rode the breezes. Bits of paper, rags, and straws were collected at corners in little whirling heaps. Presently the mightier winds would come, winging their way across miles of heaving seas to rush down the street in a mad carouse, carrying before them the dirt and refuse and odors and uncleanness which mark the dwelling of man.
He had walked some distance when, rounding a corner, a sharp gust seized him. In its fierce exultation it threw a whirlwind of dust into his eyes, so that, for a moment, he did not see that she was coming toward him. Then he caught a glimpse of the approaching figure and recognized it. She did not see him, but was engaged in her customary amusement of looking into the gardens. There was an air of unmistakable alertness and gaiety about her. Her hand tapped the tops of the fence-rails as she came, and she looked at the floral display behind them with happy eyes. Her scanty black skirt was sometimes whirled round her feet, showing her small ankles and narrow russet shoes. Once she had to put up her hand to her hat,—a white sailor bound with a dark ribbon,—and the frolicsome wind swept all the loosened ends of her hair forward and lashed
