Miss Lewis was pleased to accept a welcome invitation. Next morning the two friends mounted early for a canter through the valley. Isabel rode her husband's horse, while Gay exulted over the restive temper of Mrs. Barry's more spirited animal.

"You darling!" she cried, when finally she controlled the pretty creature, too keen for a race. Afterward, the thoroughbreds from the foothills went side by side. Miss Lewis was in high spirits. Love of action seemed to be expressed in every line of her trim little figure. Isabel felt the charm of her friend's free grace, and dashed forward with unchecked speed. A long avenue lined with palms, towering eucalyptus trees, and draping peppers reached for miles across the valley dressed for April's carnival. The air was intoxicating. Millions of flowers—roses, climbing, climbing, seemed to blaze a sacrifice to spring. Isabel's heart lightened with the glory of the day. For the time being she forgot that to-morrow was the seventeenth. That Philip was about to enter the Golden Gate, about to spend a few last hours in San Francisco before sailing on his long voyage, fortunately escaped her mind. Quick to understand, Miss Lewis led the way. She dashed onward for an hour, then nearer mountains appeared to turn for a fresh landscape. All at once remote, giant, snowclad peaks became the center of the horizon, lifting from acres of dark-green orange groves, flecked with golden fruit and snowy blossoms. Gay dropped from the saddle, while her horse began to graze by the roadside. Mrs. Barry kept her mount with loosened bridle. They had gone a long distance into the valley. The spell of spring was upon them both.

"It is all too lovely for earth!" cried Gay.

"Too lovely for sorrow and disappointment," Isabel answered. A shadow passed over her face. She was at last thinking of Philip.

Miss Lewis impulsively drew in her horse, springing to her seat like a boy. "Come on," she begged, "I have something else to show you." She stripped off her glove, holding up her hand. "Is it not a beauty?" A black opal surrounded with canary diamonds flashed in sunlight. "I chose the ring myself," she confessed. "I have always been wild over black opals, have always intended to have one when I settled down for life." She laughed and dashed onward.

"Tell me all about him," Isabel called out. "I am so glad that you are happy. I cannot wait,—do tell me."

The horses were now walking side by side. Miss Lewis leaned, shaking, over the pommel of her saddle. "Who said there was a man in the story?" she demanded. "How quickly you arrive at conclusions. Did I not say that I chose the ring myself? But I will tell you." She turned lightly to her friend. "My engagement is another case of 'Marjory Daw.' There isn't any suitor, only a ranch of six hundred acres on which I intend to live the greater part of the year. I am crazy about it! The papers are being prepared and as soon as I have full possession I shall build a bungalow, a barn, and a garage. My black opal simply means that I am engaged to my new estate; that I am going to be the happiest bachelor girl in Southern California." She laughed gaily, starting her horse on a run. "Come on! Come on!" she called.

They dashed miles across the country before they turned for home. Isabel had no opportunity for pensive thoughts. The sun had touched the zenith when the thoroughbreds stood in their stalls. Luncheon waited for two hungry women.

Suddenly a long-distance call summoned Isabel to the telephone. She left the table vaguely conscious of fresh trouble. The receiver trembled in her hand, she could hardly control herself. But soon she was listening in rapture. From far-away San Francisco a familiar voice vibrated over the wire—her husband spoke to her! "Catch the owl—to-night—join me to-morrow—at the dock," he implored. She heard him distinctly, attempted to answer, when the connection broke. Again and again the operator tried to restore the line. Communication with Philip was hopelessly lost. The disappointment seemed more than Isabel could endure, and she buried her face and wept. The voice of the man she loved still rang out in her imagination. She heard him commanding, begging her to come. "I will! I will!" she answered. She seemed almost to be repeating their marriage service. "Dear, dear husband, I am coming. No power on earth shall keep me from you." She laughed softly as she again caught the receiver.

"Give me one, six, double three!" she entreated. She hardly breathed while she waited. A woman's voice said, "Dr. Judkin's office," and Isabel announced herself. "The doctor is occupied with a patient—he cannot be interrupted. Will you please give me your message?" the attendant answered.

"He must come—at once! I cannot wait!" Isabel begged. "Tell him that Mrs. Barry wishes to speak with him; he will understand. I cannot lose a moment. I am going North to join my husband." Her words rang with decision. She no longer trembled and her tears had been dashed away. Her cheeks burned. In the little closet where she tarried an electric bulb blazed no brighter than her eyes. Why did the doctor not come? Why, after all, had she asked for him? Was she not going to Philip at once? There was indeed no time to lose if she packed for a voyage and caught the evening train in Los Angeles for San Francisco. Her heart thumped like a trip-hammer as she sat clutching the receiver, now fairly glued to her ear. And at last she recognized the voice of Dr. Judkin and repeated her previous statement.

"I'm going North to-night—on the Owl—to Philip. He wants me. He has just telephoned a long-distance message. I am to join him to-morrow—at the dock." Her voice fairly danced. "Why do you not answer?" she implored. "You surely understand?"

"My poor, poor child," she heard at last. "Would you ruin all that we have done? You must not go. Emphatically, you must not sail with your husband." The receiver dropped. Her head went forward against her arms crossed on the table. But she could not weep. The luxury of tears was beyond her strength to shed them. When she lifted her head she was in the dark; the electric bulb had burned out. And next day, at the same hour, in the same spot, she first heard of the earthquake, of the total destruction of San Francisco.