leton, grinning eternally at the
yellow lust of man.

As she passed Dupont Street, she paused again and regarded it steadily.
Sheltered in the steep hillside, it took no note of the storm; its
sidewalks were not empty, and its windows were broken bars of light.
Magdalena wondered if the painted creatures talking volubly behind the
shutters were not happier and more normal than she. They were the
rejected of their native boulevards, beyond a doubt, but they were free
in their way, and they certainly were alive.

I am nothing, she thought; neither to myself, nor to any one else. I
wonder will the wind blow me in there some night? What if it does?

But when a man started toward her with manifest intent to speak, she
fled down the hill.

When she reached Kearney Street she turned without hesitation to the
left, and walked toward those regions which are associated in the minds
of every San Franciscan with lawlessness and crime. She had given a
swift glance to the right before turning; the region of respectable
shops and fashionable promenade was as black as a tunnel; the eccentric
economy of the city forbade the light of street lamps when the moon was
out, whether clouds accompanied her or not.

Ahead was a line of lights twisting and leaping in the wind,--the
vagrant gas-jets before the row of cheap shops on the east side of the
Plaza. Magdalena hardly glanced at the medley of curious wares and faces
as she hurried past; the wind was roaring about the open square,
interfering with sight and hearing and headway. And beyond--her blood
leaped to that mysterious disreputable region.

She left the Plaza and passing under the shelter of the heights upon
which stood her home slackened her steps. There was a discordant crash
of music in the crowded streets. Light was streaming from music-halls,
above and below stairs, and from restaurants and saloons. But everybody
seemed to be on the sidewalks. It was a strange crowd, and Magdalena
forgot herself for the moment: she had entered a new world, and her
tortured soul lagged behind.

The riff-raff of the world was moving there, and when not apathetic they
took their pleasures with drawn brows and eyes alert for a fight; but
the only types Magdalena recognised were the drunken sailors and the
occasional blank-faced Chinaman who had strayed down from his quarter on
the hill. There were dark-faced men who were doubtless French and
Italian; what their calling was, no outsider could