"Frank!" she cried, and ran to him. "This is good of you." She took both of his hands and clung to them as if she were a little frightened. "Wait," she said. "I'll bet you've had nothing to eat. I'll make you a cup of coffee and a toasted cracker on the spirit lamp." Silently he sat on a broken chair and watched her. He was immensely grateful and--he suddenly realized--immensely weary. What a dear girl Aleta was! And he had not thought of her till all else failed him. Soon the coffee was steaming in two little Dresden cups, one minus a handle. There was a plateful of crackers, buttered and toasted, a bit of Swiss cheese. Frank had never tasted anything so marvelous. "Where were you going?" he asked, finally. "To the park ... the panhandle ... everybody's going there." "Your--mother!" A swift recollection smote him. "Where is she?" "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