Time dragged for Isabel. Like every one else with friends in the North, she tried in vain to hear directly from San Francisco. Communication had been completely cut off for the ill-fated city; wrecked, now burning above the useless bay. Isabel sat for hours listening and waiting. Still no word from Philip. The sound of his far-away voice, his last request, asking her to come to him, echoed in her brain. She felt that she might lose her reason. All the fine courage of weeks back was gone. Dr. Judkin, Miss Lewis, and old madame, each tried in turn to allay her fear. She could not hope. The only person whose sympathy seemed to be of value was Cole's, for the man from the foothills offered to go North and hunt for Philip. "I'll get into the city some way," he promised. "If Mr. Barry's on land I'll find him." Isabel would have accepted the warm-hearted offer but for Dr. Judkin. "Ten chances to one your husband was on shipboard before the earthquake took place," he stoutly maintained. "I know that Dr. Ward had at first intended spending the night at the St. Francis; then he changed his plan, deciding to get his patient settled as soon as possible in the steamer's cabin. He feared the excitement of the hotel and felt sure that the Tahiti boat would be lying at anchor." Isabel did not reply and he went on. "Suspense is hard to endure, but I rely on you to wait a few days longer, when we are then sure to hear something. While flames are raging in the streets, with dynamite blowing up blocks of buildings, we cannot hope for reliable information. But one thing is certain—Dr. Ward is going to take care of Philip Barry. If the two men are not out at sea they are simply unable to let us know of their safety on account of both martial law and prevailing conditions."

"I should have gone to him when he called me!" Isabel answered. "Then I would have been there—when it happened. Oh, why did you keep me from going?" For the first time Dr. Judkin felt unable to control his patient's wife. She was like another woman refusing to accept either advice or sympathy. Even the boy was now forgotten. But remembering the long previous strain to which she had been subjected, he forgave her. He realized the strength of her love, while he considered every available means for reaching the burning city at once. Finally he could no longer resist Isabel's mute pleading. Outside of professional obligation he seemed to see that she had suffered enough.

"I will go myself—find out where he is," he offered, impulsively. He stood looking down at Philip Barry's wife. "A special train for newspaper men leaves for the North to-night. I can go as a surgeon. I'll try my best to make you happy—as I promised to do," he humbly added. There was a lump in his throat and he went out. Isabel, stunned with gratitude, could not speak, could not thank him. But her face shone with the old courage of weeks back, lived through for Philip's sake.

The next day and the day after she went about the house as usual, thinking of others, trying not to brood. Reginald enjoyed his evening petting and in every way his mother seemed to be the same. Then gradually the late catastrophe became less fatal as time went by. For at last reliable news was beginning to come in from the ill-fated city, still burning, yet under absolute martial law. Thousands were now reported to be safe, though homeless, in the parks and upon higher, undamaged ground, beyond the region of flames. Relief trains had gone out on all the railroads; a few of them were now returning, packed with frightened, hungry refugees. And every one in the South seemed to be helping. The call for clothing for unfortunates had been answered generally. Isabel found strange comfort in sorting over her wardrobe, in giving useful parts of it away. Everything suitable for the dire occasion was gladly offered. Action restored her. In helping others she helped herself. Her generosity grew contagious throughout the household. Madame and the maids brought half-worn garments to swell the size of her own complete pile. Even thrifty Wing became duly exercised over the sad condition of countrymen driven from San Francisco's Chinatown. He talked incessantly of the prevalent heathen version of the earthquake, which involved the rage of an "old black cow" beneath the surface. One morning he rushed out of the kitchen in fresh excitement. A "cousin" from the North had just arrived, transported South in a cattle car filled with other celestials. Wing's face reflected the situation as he burst forth with the story of his friend's lucky escape. Isabel sitting alone encouraged him to speak.

"My cousin velly sad, now he lose he business—he so poor. What you think? Plaps I take him lectic car—go that Venice—all same dleam." Wing referred to a seaside resort nearby.

Mrs. Barry nodded. "You may have the day for your outing," she told him kindly. "One of the maids may take your place."

Wing beamed. "You velly good. I think I go—take my poor cousin—so he not be sad."

"An excellent plan," said Isabel.

He spread his hands with deprecating scorn for unwilling sacrifice. "I not help my fliend when he have bad luck, I no good!" he exclaimed. "Now my cousin begin all over—not one cent! He tell me all 'bout that earthquake, so terrible. He say, glound lock! lock! lock! all same ocean. Seventeen time! that old black cow kick up, under that gleat San Flancisco. That old cow never so mad udder time."

Isabel appreciated the heathen myth, but her soul sank as she thought of Philip. Where was he? Had he felt the awful shock, been hurt or killed in a wrecked hotel?

Wing went on. "Course I not b'leve 'bout that cow. Mission teacher say not so. I not know. I jus say mischief all done! Plaps old cow make trouble. Nobody know. Any old thing! I say, old black cow jus as good." A philosopher's pucker played on his lips and his strong white teeth parted in a smile. "My cousin horrible scare; cannot forget. He tell me,—all so happy, down that Chinatown fore that earthquake. He say people sit up late, go see flends; play domino; take little supper, len go bed. Everybody have heap fun. Nobody have fear! Pretty soon everybody wake up—hear that noise! be clazy? Old Chinatown be all same jag! Glound so dlunk, cannot keep still. Houses dlunk, too! plitty soon fall down. People no can stand up—no can see, all dark! Big noise come out sky; len fire make so blight. China loomans scleam! Little children cannot lun fast. Those priest up Jos House—no good. Everybody lun that bay. No use! Water mad too. Everything clazy! My poor cousin sick inside he heart; cannot forget."

"By all means take him to Venice," Isabel advised. And later she watched the pair go forth from the garden. Wing's vivid description of the catastrophe lived in her memory all day. But she tried to control herself; tried to believe that good news would soon come from Dr. Judkin. Then in the afternoon a messenger boy brought a despatch. She tore open the envelope, hardly daring to look within. But she nerved herself and read, "Your husband's manuscript accepted for magazine, also for book form." Philip's friend—the editor—had signed the golden message.