In view of the above combinations of beautiful scenery and the possible defense of San Francisco from a foreign foe, it was a deplorable matter that the Ocean Shore railroad should, even temporarily, be put out of commission; for, in war, a mere road however well constructed, can never take the place of a railway. As to the great inconvenience caused to farmers and inhabitants of the settlements that have grown up along the line, that is still "another story." And whether or not it be true that vegetable men have been hauling their products to San Francisco on inotor trucks, reduced freight on the railroad to an extent that made it impossible to operate it at a profit; or whether on the other hand, the vegetable men went into the truck business because, as they allege, the rates for freight were excessive-are questions the writer does not attempt to solve, and lie without the scope of this article.

What does concern all who have at heart the interests and future of San Francisco and the state at large, is a thorough exploitation of the wonderful stretch of coast from San Francisco to Half Moon Bay, upon which Nature has lavished almost all the charms at her disposal, while we for our part, have not only done next to nothing by way of appreciation, but

have even ignored the charms themselves! We poke fun at Los Angeles and her manmade harbor, but at least, the citizens of Los Angeles made it, by unremitting heckling of the Federal Government-the more credit to them.

And now that a genuine interest has been aroused in the improvement and beautifying of the San Francisco city front, the effort should not be allowed to stop at the city limits, but should extend down the coast to Half Moon Bay. Of the possibilities of Point San Pedro, anyone possessed of imagination, can see at a glance. Had such a beauty spot been within fourteen miles of Los Angeles, years ago Point San Pedro would not only have possessed a magnificent hotel, but would have been converted into a second Monaco.

It is time to wake up. San Diego used to be unmercifully chaffed about her incessant harping on one string-"Bay and Climate"-behold the result! Her park, and artistic permanent exposition buildings, together with its charming gardens and an unsurpassed marine view, make her the most picturesque city in the state. In the last decade, her population increased eighty per cent. Needless to add, the scoffers have been forever silenced!

A

ND you will come back to Julie?" she asked, with a wistful drooping of her young mouth.

"Yes, ma cherie," he promised in his clumsy doughboy dialect, "within the year, my Julie, for I love you beaucoup— beaucoup!"

They clung together in a last embrace; then he was gone, his face turned toward his beloved America. Solemnly, he swore to himself, that once on his home shore he never again would leave it, and the feeling grew stronger day by day as the crowded transport pounded on toward New York. There was his promise to Julie, of course, but what of that? Somehow, he felt that she had read the lie in his eyes even as he voiced his farewell words.

"Julie is young-she will forget me," he told himself; yet something deep within him echoed, "Julie is young, yes— but she will not forget."

In the pocket next his heart was stowed the last letter he had received from the States before sailing from Brest. Quite evidently his mother had been thrown into a mild panic at the letters she had received from him-letters in which he had mentioned Julie, not merely once or twice, but many times.

"Promise me that you will not marry that French girl of whom you write so frequently," thus wrote Mrs. Graham McCullough to her only son.

Sergeant Wayne McCullough frowned whenever he recalled his parent's words. He could well depict the agitation under the home roof were he to bring thereto as his bride Julie Millet-she whose hands were rough with the labor of the fields and whose face was traced with lines of sorrow. The idea of marrying Julie was little short of mirth-provoking.

He was no snob, of course, but-well, he was Wayne McCullough; his father was a man of money and importance, his mother a social light. There were his sisters, too, to be thought of-they had been more than a wee bit disappointed in him because he had not tried for a commission. How could he bring Julie of the peasant mannerisms home to them? As well try to transplant in the midst of three beautiful roses of hot-house aristocracy a rough little brier of the woods. whose life has been spent in breasting the elements.

Even before the transport headed into its dock, all thoughts of the little peasant girl had drifted from the mind of Sergeant McCullough. Like the mud-filled trenches, the roar of death-dealing cannons, the days and nights of horror on the battlefields, she was of the past.

He was one of a trainload full of cheerng infantrymen who took by storm every top-over city and town on their trip cross the continent, enroute to California. They were heroes and the world. was ready with its laurel.

When at last Wayne hurled himself from the troop train at Oakland, he was greeted by an eager mass of relatives--his parents, sisters, aunts uncles, cousins galore-and miracle of miracles-Carolyn Langford, the sweetheart of his prep school days! One and all they fell on his neck until Wayne struggled for air and in glad desperation shouted "kamerad!" Then as they drew back to allow him breathing space, the band burst into a noisy welcome, playing with spasmodic abruptness "Madelon," the marching song of the valient poilu. Even then, Wayne did not think of a little peasant girl back there in Southern France. His

eyes were smiling into the charming ones of the loyal Carolyn. Thrice glad was Sergeant Wayne McCullough that he was home.

Within a week, Wayne received his discharge at the Presidio; and then he was back again in the beautiful transbay home of the Graham McCulloughs. On the very day of his return, with his usual impetuosity, he asked the sweetheart of his boy

nood days to be his wife.

"But I thought there was a girl over there in France," hesitated Carolyn. "Your mother told me that you used to mention a girl in your letters."

"Oh-Julie?" Wayne's voice was slow. "Poor little thing! She lost her father and two brothers in the war. There's only Julie and her blind old grandfather left. She was like a sister to me-used to help me forget that I was homesick and thousands of miles away from God's country. I just felt sorry for Julie-that's all."

The elder McCullough when told that his son intended to take unto himself a wife, merely said, "Carolyn Langford is a fine girl, Wayne, but of course you will postpone marriage until you finish your college course. That will take about two years."

"I'm not going back to college, dad," returned Wayne, looking his father squarely in the eyes. "I've come to the conclusion that law isn't my vocation, so I've decided to go to work and thought perhaps you could set me up in some business-."

"Not until you graduate from the university," replied Graham McCullough, a trifle warmly. It was hard to get used to this new son of his; to realize that he who had gone away a mere college stripling had returned a man.

Wayne said no more. He would not defy his senior's will-that was one of the many things he had learned in the

school of army life. He began the task of trying to re-adjust himself to civil life, with the keen realization that he could not take up the thread of his existence where it had been broken off twenty months before. He must start life anew but how? "Action" had been the watchword of the men overseas, but "action" in the McCullough set consisted in lead

ing the gay life of a bon vivant.

For a few months Wayne drifted, taking a mild pleasure in absorbing the lionizing welcome-home greetings accorded him on every hand. Home was the paradise for which he had yearned through many long months, yet in the life of Wayne McCullough there was a void-it puzzled him-annoyed him.

"What's the matter with me, anyhow?" Often he awoke himself in the dead of night with the muttered question on his lips.

Then one Saturday afternoon he accompanied his mother on a shopping expedition to San Francisco. Promenading along Grant Avenue, they came face to face with a tall young fellow of rather seedy appearance, who at the sight of Wayne emitted a whoop of uncontrolled joy.

"Buddy!" bellowed Wayne, blissfully unmindful of the passing throng.

Above clasped hands, they looked into each other's eyes as only men can look who have side by side faced death.

Various expressions chased in swift succession across the mobile face of Mrs. Graham McCullough, as she surveyed Mr. Joseph Hackett, late of the A. E. F. In straight-from-the-shoulder words, the young man under observation did not "belong." Mrs. McCullough produced a lorgnette, and that instrument did its deadly work, for Joe, as he was being introduced by the enthusiastic Wayne, felt, as expressed in his own thoughts, "like a mangy pup on exhibition at a high-class dog show."