The afternoon was cold and Mariposa wore a jacket as she sang. The cottage in Pine Street was all that a cottage ought not to be,--on the wrong side of the street, “too far out,” cold, badly built, and with only one window to catch the western sun. It had one advantage which went a long way with the widow and her daughter--the rent was twenty dollars a month. Mariposa had paid ten dollars of this with her earnings, and kept the other six for pocket-money. But the happy day was dawning, so she thought, when she could pay the whole twenty. She cogitated on this and the affluence it would indicate, as her real father might have cogitated when he and the inner ring of his associates began to realize that the Reydel Monte was not a pocket, but a solid mound of mineral. On this gray afternoon the cold little parlor, with its bulge of bay window looking out on the dreariness of the street, seemed impregnated with an air of dejection. In common with many poor dwellings in that city of extravagant reverses, it was full of the costly relics of better days. San Francisco has more of such parlors than any city in the country. The pieces of buhl and marquetry hiding their shame in twenty-dollar cottages and eighteen-dollar flats furnish pathetic commentary on many a story of fallen fortunes. The furniture looks abashed and humbled. Sometimes its rich designs have found a grateful seclusion under the dust of a quarter century, which finally will be removed by the restoring processes of the second-hand dealer, who will eventually become its owner. There was a beautiful marquetry sideboard in the gray front parlor and a fine scarlet lacquer Chinese cabinet facing it. Moreau had had the tall, gilt-framed mirror and console brought round The Horn from New York when he had been in the flush of good times in Sacramento. The piano Mariposa was playing dated from a second period of prosperity, and had cost what would have now kept them for a year. It had been considered cheap at the time, and had been bought when the little Mariposa began to show musical tastes. She had played her first “pieces” on it, and in that halcyon period when she had had the singing lessons, had heard the big voice in her chest slowly shaking itself loose to the accompaniment of its encouraging notes. Now she was singing in single tones, from note to note, higher and higher, then lower and lower. Her voice was a mezzo, with a “break” in the middle, below which it had a haunting, bell-like depth. As it went down it gained a peculiar emotional quality which seemed to thrill with passion and tears. As it began to ascend it was noticeable that her upper tones, though full, were harsh. There was astounding volume in them. It was evidently a big voice, a thing of noble promise, but now crude and unmanageable.