“Mother died last week,” Aleta turned away.  “I’m rather thankful—­now.”

Silently he helped her with the packing.  There were a suitcase and a satchel for the choice of her possessions.  They required much picking and choosing.  Many cherished articles must be abandoned.

Suddenly Aleta ran to Frank.  The room was rocking.  Plaster fell about them.  The girl screamed.  To his astonishment, Frank found his arms around her waist.  He was patting her dark, rumpled hair.  Her hands were on his shoulders, and her piquant, wistful face close to his own.  She had sought him like a frightened child.  And he, with masculine protective impulse, had responded.  That was all.  Or was it?  They looked into each other’s eyes, bewildered, shaken.  All was quiet now.  The temblor had passed instantly and without harm.

In the street they joined a motley aggregation moving westward in horse-driven vehicles, automobiles, invalid chairs, baby buggies and afoot.  Rockers, filled with household goods, tied down and pulled by ropes, were part of the procession.  Everyone carried or dragged the maximum load his or her strength allowed.

When they reached that long narrow strip of park called the Panhandle it was close to dusk.  They advanced some distance ere they found a vacant space.  The first two blocks were covered like a gypsy camp with wagons, trunks and spread-out salvage of a hundred hastily abandoned homes.  Improvised tents had been fashioned from blankets or sheets.  Before one of these a bearded man was praying lustily for salvation.  A neighbor watched him, smiling, and drank deeply from a pocket flask.  A stout woman haled Aleta.  “You and your husband got any blankets?” she asked.

“No,” the girl said, reddening.  “No, we haven’t ... and he’s not ...”

“Well, never mind,” the woman answered.  “Take these two.  It may come cold ’fore morning.  And I’ve got more than I can use.  We brung the wagon.”  She drew the girl aside and nudged her in the ribs.

“We ain’t married, either—­Jim ‘n’ me.  But what’s the diff?”

CHAPTER LXXX

AFTERMATH

About daylight the next morning Frank was awakened by a soft pattering sound.  He jumped to his feet.  Was it raining?  All about folk stirred, held forth expectant hands to feel the drops.  But they were fine white flakes—­ashes from the distant conflagration.  Aleta still lay moveless, wrapped in her blanket some ten feet away.  They had been up most of the night, watching the flames, had seen them creep across Market street, up Powell, Mason, Taylor, Jones streets to Nob Hill.  Finally Frank had persuaded Aleta to seek a little rest.  Despite her protest that sleep was impossible, he had rolled her in one of the borrowed blankets, wrapping himself, Indianwise, in the other.  Toward morning slumber had come to them both.

Aleta, now awake, smiled at Frank and declared herself refreshed.  “What had we better do next?” she questioned.