n with a battered brass cornet.
Far over the park stole a melody that drew hundreds of men and women
from their tents. Of all denominations and all creeds, they gathered on
that green knoll, and the men uncovered while the solemn voice repeated
the words of a grand old hymn, known wherever men and women meet to
worship the Lord:

"Other refuge have I none, hangs my helpless soul on Thee; Leave, oh,
leave me not alone, still support and comfort me!"

A moment before there had been shouting and confusion in the
driveway where some red-striped artillerymen were herding a squad of
gesticulating Chinamen as men herd sheep. The shouting died away as the
minister's voice rose and fell and out of the stillness came the sobs of
women. One little woman in blue was making no sound, but the tears were
streaming down her cheeks. Her husband, a sturdy young fellow in his
shirt sleeves, put his arm about her shoulders and tried to comfort her
as the reading went on.

"All my trust on Thee is stayed; all my help from Thee I bring; Cover my
defenseless head with the shadow of Thy wing."

Then the cornet took up the air again and those helpless persons
followed it in quivering tones, the white-haired man of God leading them
with closed eyes. When the last verse was over, the minister raised his
hands.

"Let us pray," said he, and his congregation sank down in the grass
before him. It was a simple prayer, such a prayer as might be offered by
a man without a home or a shelter over his head--and nothing left to him
but an unshaken faith in his Creator.

"Oh, Lord, Thy ways are past finding out, but we still have faith in
Thee. We know not why Thou hast visited these people and left them
homeless. Thou knowest the reason of this desolation and of our utter
helplessness. We call on Thee for help in the hour of our great need.
Bless the people of this city, the sorrowing ones, the bereaved, gather
them under Thy mighty wing and soothe aching hearts this day."

The women were crying again, and one big man dug his knuckles into his
eyes without shame. The man who could have listened to such a prayer
unmoved was not in Golden Gate Park that day.

CHAPTER VII.

The Frightful Loss of Life and Wealth.

While multitudes escaped from toppling buildings and crashing walls in
the dread disaster of that fatal Wednesday morning of April 18th in San
Francisco, hundreds of the less fortunate met their death in the ruins,
and horri