“I had forgotten the old duffer,” he smiled back at me.  Raising his glasses again, he scanned the sombre roofs to the right.  “There’s another monument,” he volunteered, “rising out of the heart of the city.”

I followed the direction indicated to where the outstretched arms of a white wooden cross were silhouetted against the sky.

“If I were in Europe,” he continued, “I should call it a shrine, for the sides of the hill on which it stands are seamed with paths running from the net-work of houses to the foot of the cross.”

“It is a shrine at which all San Francisco worships.  Wrapped in mystery it stands, for when it was placed there no one knows.  It comes to us out of the past—­a token left by the Spanish padres.  Three times it has fallen into decay, but always loving hands have reached forward to restore it, and as long as San Francisco shall last, a cross will rise from the summit of Lone Mountain.”

“The Spanish padres!” The ring in his voice bespoke his interest.  “Are there any other relics left?”

I pointed to the level section below.  “Do you see that low red roof almost hidden by its towering neighbors?  That is the old Mission San Francisco de Asis, colloquially called Dolores, from the little rivulet on whose bank it was built.”

Through his field glasses he scrutinized the expanse of substantial houses and paved streets.  “I can’t find the rivulet,” he announced.

“Of course you can’t, you stupid man!” I laughed.  “If you’ll use your imagination instead of your glasses you will see it easily.  The stream arose, we are told, between the summits of Twin Peaks, and tumbling down the hill-side, made its way east, emptying into the Laguna.”

“I don’t see a laguna!” Again the skeptic surveyed the field of roofs.

“Put down your glasses and close your eyes,” I commanded.  “When you open them the houses from here to the bay will have disappeared and the ground will be covered with a carpet of velvety green, dappled here and there by groves of oak trees and relieved by patches of bright poppies.”

“And fields of yellow mustard,” he supplemented.

“No, your imagination is too vivid.  The padres brought the mustard seed later.  A little south of the present mission,” I continued, “you will see a group of willows bending to drink the crystal waters of the Arroyo de los Dolores, so named because Anza and his followers discovered it on the day of our Mother of Sorrows, and to the east is the shining laguna.”

“It’s clear as a San Francisco fog,” he laughed.  “I’d like to take a look at the old building!  Is there a car line?”

“Let’s follow in the footsteps of the padres,” I begged.  “They used often to climb this hill and it isn’t very far.”

He looked dubiously down the rugged side and mentally measured the distance from the base to the low tiled roof.

“All right,” he said at last, “if you’ll let me take a ten minutes nap before we start.”  He stretched himself at full length on the soft grass and pulled his hat low over his eyes.