Sleeping Fires: a Novel
SLEEPING FIRES I There was no Burlingame in the Sixties, the Western Addition was a desert of sand dunes and the goats gambolled through the rocky gulches of Nob Hill. But San Francisco had its Rincon Hill and South Park, Howard and Fulsom and Harrison Streets, coldly aloof from the tumultuous hot heart of the City north of Market Street. In this residence section the sidewalks were also wooden and uneven and the streets muddy in winter and dusty in summer, but the houses, some of which had "come round the Horn," were large, simple, and stately. Those on the three long streets had deep gardens before them, with willow trees and oaks above the flower beds, quaint ugly statues, and fountains that were sometimes dry. The narrower houses of South Park crowded one another about the oval enclosure and their
"Let us go to the gate, Edward," she said, when they reached the door;
"the children will be coming out of school, and I may see some of my
little friends."
They walked very slowly, and neither spoke for a few moments, till Ellen
said, in rather a hurried tone, "I was wrong just now when I told you I
never wished for anything; there is one thing I want very much, and
which you can never give me."
"What is it?" asked her brother.
"To be able to live over again the twenty years of health which have
just passed from me, and to have again all the money I spent in that
time."
"Why, my dear Ellen," said Captain Crawford gaily, "you are the last
person in the world to say anything of the sort. I am sure the greatest
pleasure of your days of health was to take puddings and sixpences to
old women; and if that is not a satisfactory way of spending one's time
and money, I don't know what is. But really, Ellen," he said, more
seriously, as he saw her grave face, "I do not see what reason you have
to blame yourself, after such a life as yours has been. I should have
thought the recollection of it would now have been your greatest
comfort; and that, after taking care of others for so long, you might
enjoy being taken care of yourself now. But, my little one! what is the
SLEEPING FIRES I There was no Burlingame in the Sixties, the Western Addition was a desert of sand dunes and the goats gambolled through the rocky gulches of Nob Hill. But San Francisco had its Rincon Hill and South Park, Howard and Fulsom and Harrison Streets, coldly aloof from the tumultuous hot heart of the City north of Market Street. In this residence section the sidewalks were also wooden and uneven and the streets muddy in winter and dusty in summer, but the houses, some of which had "come round the Horn," were large, simple, and stately. Those on the three long streets had deep gardens before them, with willow trees and oaks above the flower beds, quaint ugly statues, and fountains that were sometimes dry. The narrower houses of South Park crowded one another about the oval enclosure and their