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A day passed and another. Then over the threshold of consciousness came the recollection of my one cherished possession—a beautiful opera cloak.

On that fateful morning in April, 1906, after the rush to escape from the tottering building, I found myself on the streets of San Francisco in somewhat scanty attire, but folded warmly in my new biscuit-coloured evening wrap. Many thanks I offered up for its protection in the chilly days and nights that followed. Then, when conditions had returned somewhat to normal, a good cleaning and remodelling restored almost its pristine glory, and again it gave good service on the honeymoon. While the panic was sweeping away all our possessions, I laid it aside, resolved that it at least should be retained throughout the storm.

But a sterner necessity compelled, so taking it from the drawer, I wended my way to Oak Street and there held a colloquy with our friend’s wife. The cloak caught her fancy at once, the bargain was struck, and I trundled home my prize in triumph, to lean it carefully near the door of our crowded quarters.