THE sunshine of winter lightly gilded the crested hills of San Francisco, spreading from the lapping waters of the bay at her feet over to the solitary cross of Lone Mountain. But the dunes of sand beyond lay under masses of clouds blowing in from the Pacific, soon to creep over the blue sky, to blur out the sunset and to hasten the twilight.

      Enjoying the brightness of the day, Christmas crowds were hurrying to and fro, along the busy street. With many parcels clasped in their arms, and unusual brightness in their eyes, young and old were smiling as they passed along. In the midst of the happy throng came a strange and shambling figure. It was a man, bent and old, hastening along in a sort of jocular gait, strangely at variance with his feeble frame. His clother were green as if with mould, his face was drawn and pallid. There was a general suggestiveness of a corpse with a skullike head. He looked as if he had arisen from the dead.

      "Neither man nor woman, neither brute nor human" — came unconsciously to my mind as my eyes rested on him. He seemed to take no notice of those about him and jogged on, bent on a course of his own. I watched his movements, fascinated and followed him up Kearny street, where he turned and went into the White House, (for this was before the fire), where only the aristocrats go to buy; and mutely he held out his hand to the magnificent floorwalker, who was the haughtiest thing that walked. My heart bled for him, and I wondered why he ventured in there, only to be driven out with scorn for daring to brush by those proud dames and their daughters.

      But there was something so awful in the old man's face, that the fine gentleman put his hand into his pocket and gave him a silver dollar. I was surprised at his generosity; a dime would have sufficed. I looked in my own purse. It was not so very full, and there were many presents yet to get. Unwillingly I took out a half dollar and followed the old man.

      "Even suppose he does spend it for drink, to warm his poor old bones, it is Christmas-time," I reasoned, "and he is free to do what he may to comfort himself for the few remaining hours he has to live. I will give him the benefit of the doubt."

      He looked at the ground as if unseeing, and extended his hand — a pitiful hand, for one of the fingers was missing — and it had been roughened by hard work, though the marks of good birth showed in the delicacy of its shaping. He passed on and went to the next store-entrance. A man at once reached out a shining piece of gold to him. There was something no one could withstand in this abject creature; there was a warning in his skull-like face, as if he said, "Your hour is coming, too."

      Each moment a terror crept into my heart. I was fascinated yet repulsed. It was impossible to describe the feeling that overwhelmed me. "If he be alive," I kept on repeating, "then someone should take him to the hospital, for he will die in the street before morning. The soul has already escaped from that body, and he is in reality dead, but his body is still going on from a muscular force of habit."

      I looked around but no one seemed to take any further notice of the old man than to give him alms or a momentary glance of horror as they passed him by. The responsibility seemed forced upon me against my will to look out for this abject creature, evidently homeless, friendless and on the verge of dissolution. Inwardly I rebelled.

      "Why should I have to follow this man? He is repulsive, he is not even clean," I complained to myself. "Let someone else take the responsibility." But still my feet followed whether I would or not. My little gifts were forgotten; the children at home faded away. I was impelled to follow, follow!

      The blue above was now overcast with drifting masses of clouds, the uncertain light of late afternoon faded into the dim of twilight, and still I was dogging the footsteps of the strange old man.

      His strength kept up mysteriously; his jocular gait was even difficult to keep up with. As we went up Market street we met a man who was well-known for his immense wealth and dishonest practices. Mutely was the appeal made.

      The millionaire carelessly gave him a gold piece, then as he viewed the awful face; "My God, is that you —?" he exclaimed, calling out the name of a farmer partner of his own, who had died some years before. But the old man said never a word, only jogged along leaving the rich man dazed and gazing after him.

      He went into narrow streets, into low groggeries, to the doors of humble people, and all gave the weird creature a dime, or more, willingly. Somehow I was led to wonder at the open-heartedness of all these beings, for I had never guessed that there were really so many to show generosity, kindness of heart and so much feeling to a wretched beggar even at Christmas-time.

      All at once a handsome carriage came rolling by. Within was a one-time actress, the idol of the people in her gala-day, now grey-haired and stately in her old age, with diamonds gleaming at her throat and in her ears, for she had been prudent in her youth, and now enjoyed a fine income from her block of houses.

      As the carriage stopped a moment, the old man jogged to the door and stood there in an appealing attitude. The stately woman looked terror-struck and brushed her hand across her eyes vaguely. "William!" she gasped. Then seeing the hand mutely extended and no word coming forth, she put her purse into it, and gave the word to "Drive on," her blanched face, set with its diamond rays of light, gleaming out strangely in the darkness.

      I could hear the chuckle of the old man as he tucked the purse away and went on. Dark night came on, damp and chill, and at last, in a humble part of the city, we came to an old house, built years ago in the early days of San Francisco. It was shaky and tumble-down in appearance. The old man entered without knocking. From the dark hallway I saw through an open door, lighted by a flickering candle, a woman sitting upon the floor, wild- eyed and despairing. A youth lay tossing in fever, upon the wretched apology for a bed, the room being without carpet or chairs. Everything was bare and desolate; poverty, mean and gaunt, sat by the woman's side, looking over her shoulder.

      "Money, money —" she whispered, weaving to and fro. "Money would save him. I had thousands — but he, the false friend, the black-hearted he stole all from me and I have nothing, nothing! He robbed the widow and the fatherless and now, at last, we are starving! Oh, my God! if there be a God in heaven, hear my prayer, and let that man find no rest in the cold bed where he lies."

      My blood was congealing in my veins. There. was such an awful vacancy in her eyes, it seemed as if she were already insane. The old man stepped forward, with that same peculiar little trot-motion and poured into her lap a shining heap of silver and gold with the purse on top. Meanwhile he whispered in a wheedling tone, "Now will you let me have a little peace? I have no rest day or night because of your prayers. Don't pray against me for a little while, for I am tortured by your cries. See, they have let me come back at Christmas- time to make restitution. I have brought you the first, because I wronged you the most. I have much to do — much to do."

      The woman gazed upon him with eyes that changed from vacancy to horror. Then she gave a suppressed scream, "What? Is it you?"

      The old man jogged along to the door. "Let me have a little rest — a little rest! If you knew, you would pity me, and I am tortured by their cries. Let me rest — let me rest!"

      "It is some harmless lunatic escaped from his keeper," said I, "and just before death he is making restitution for imaginary wrongs."

      Still I followed, then I heard him chuckle in a gruesome manner, "Pretty soon, pretty soon, I'll get it set straight, but I must be at work again for there is much to do much to do in the Christmas-time."

      On we went through the long dark streets, under the eucalyptus trees away out on Pine street, and still he kept up his jog-trot. On and on.

      "Can it be possible he lives so far away?" I thought to myself as we reached the last house.

      The mist had lifted. The street lamps shone more brightly, the cloud masses broke up into islands in the sky, and an old moon sailed among them like a silver ship. He turned quickly. I knew that we were nearing Laurel Hill cemetery, and close at hand, on the rising land of the incline of the hill, was the sight of white tombs in the spectral light.

      "What strange fate has brought him here to die?" I thought to myself pitifully, when suddenly, I saw him disappear into the earth. A mastering sense of terror overwhelmed me, and yet I was held fascinated, as if by a spell. In the dim light of the moon I read the inscription upon the lofty monument. It was the name I had heard spoken that night — the name of one who had not scrupled during his lifetime at any evil thing that could bring him wealth or pleasure, so that his name was execrated by the community.

      Brief was the glory he had won, however, for it was well known to everyone, how at his death the great fortune he had piled up, had and their excesses had put one in an insane asylum, and the other in an early grave. There was left only one descendant — a grandson, and he was so poor that he was forced to earn his living as a common laborer. And it had been told of him that sometimes he took refuge in drugs to ease his distress of body and mind.

      A thrill went through me as I pondered — a thrill of pity for the poor ghost who had to go forth at Christmas-time and set straight all the ways he had made crooked in his lifetime. All at once I saw a dim light faintly illumine the lower part of the tomb where the steps led down to the mortuary cell where was the opening.

      Drawn by a power that was irresistible, I went nearer. In between the bars of the aperture I saw the form of the ghost, and he was going through strange evolutions. I watched him, fascinated, as I saw the process by means of which he laid aside his uncanny pallor and gruesome appearance. Then shrinking down in the bushes, which were close at hand, as I heard the door open, I hid, and there came forth the figure of a young man. His face was very pale, it is true, and he was very thin, but he was no longer bent, nor mouldy-looking. I glanced at him as he passed and by the light of the moon I saw it was the grandson who greatly resembled the evil old man whose name was on the monument.

      Several times since that awful night have I seen him upon his rounds at Christmas-time — upon his atoning pilgrimage — but I will follow him no more.