After our long journey, our harassing drive through ruined Messina--where the reality surpassed all descriptions--the exquisite neatness, the order, the comfort of the Zona Case Americane, brought a sense of well-being like oil poured on a burning wound. I sat for an hour in that fragrant little wooden room, while the rain drummed with soft fingers on the roof, and went over the history of our journey step by step, tested link by link the chain of chance circumstances that had drawn young Brush, the new recruit, from the garage in Florence to the camp by the Torrente Zaera. The manner in which the whole American working party was brought together is well illustrated by the story. If Mr. Parrish had not been in Florence, if he had not hunted up Mr. Brush, if that letter from camp had not come the day we lunched at the Trattoria Aurora, we should not have had one of our most useful and faithful workers; and young Brush would have missed one of the great experiences of his life. Mr. Griscom felt that one of his practical difficulties was that all the help he could hope for must be drawn from the American colonies in Italy, the Government agents, consuls, artists and missionaries. If this was a difficulty--which I question--the way it was overcome both at the Embassy and the camp was magnificent. Whatever tool he had, Belknap worked with and found it a good tool. It may have been his nature--he is the kind of workman who never grumbles at his tools--but the character of the helpers surely counted for something. Our consuls were never found wanting. Bayard Cutting from Milan, though out of health at the time of the earthquake, went down to Messina with the first relief party, and from that time on he was faithful to the great work. Bishop at Palermo, Crowninshield at Naples, Smith at Genoa, did magnificent service, working day and night, without thought of sparing themselves. The spirit of the officials and volunteers was almost without exception altruistic. Every man was trying to help the other out; all were matched in the great race for service. Sailors, consuls, artists and missionaries have something in common surely; it was just that something that made them of so much use. They are not machines; they have not been warped and deformed by the commercial slavery that is sapping the life-blood of our people. Mammon, the slave-driver, may crack his whip; it does not frighten them. Their time is not money, it’s beyond price, so they spent it freely for their suffering brothers and never counted the cost. J. had written that the nights were cold. I unpacked my hot-water bottle and my traveling rug; I was just on the point of calling Gasperone to fill the bottle, when J. looked in. His eyes brightened at the sight of the rubber bottle. “Are you going to use this?” he asked. “Oh, no! I always travel with it, in case of illness.” “If you are sure, I will have it filled; Belknap’s taken cold. You brought the rug; will you need it?”