north of Market Street and up the hills. It was still some distance from
all but the lower end of Van Ness Avenue, the wide street that divides the
eastern and western sections of the city, as Market Street divides the
northern and southern, and her own home on Geary Street was beyond Franklin
and safe for the present. It was expected that the fire would be halted
by dynamiting the blocks east of the avenue, but as it had already leapt
across not far from Market Street and was running out toward the Mission,
Gora pinned her faith in nothing less than a change of wind.

Life has many disparate schools. The one attended by Miss Gora Dwight had
taught her to hope for the best, prepare for the worst, and be thankful
if she escaped (to use the homely phrase; one rarely found leisure for
originality in this particular school) by the skin of her teeth.

Gora fully expected to lose the house she sat on, and had packed what few
valuables she possessed in two large bags: the fine underclothes she had
made at odd moments, and a handsome set of toilet articles her brother had
given her on the Christmas before last. He had had a raise of salary and
her experiment with lodgers had proved even more successful than she had
dared to hope. On the following Christmas he had given her a large book
with a fancy binding (which she had exchanged for something she could
read). After satisfying the requirements of a wardrobe suitable for the
world of fashion, supplemented by the usual toll of flowers and bon-bons,
he had little surplus for domestic presents.

Gora's craving for drama was far deeper and more significant than young
Alexina Groome's, and she determined to watch until the last moment the
terrific spectacle of the burning city. The wind had carried the smoke
upward for a mile or more and pillars of fire supported it at such
irregular intervals that it looked like a vast infernal temple in which