“Do me the favor to work a little faster, Checco. The rain will begin before we have the roof on. Birbante! Are you not ashamed? You are slower than a sheep.” Caterina made us known to aunt and cousin. Zia Maddalena welcomed us; Sofia, sitting on the ground, suckling her infant, smiled and nodded. “I have lived on this spot for thirty-seven years,” the old woman began. “_She_ was born here,” pointing to Sofia. “Do you think I would live anywhere else? Later we shall have one of the American barracks. The Signore will speak to the Sor Comandante of us?” Sofia handed the baby to her mother, picked up a stone for a hammer and began to nail down the roof. “That’s the little scamp who steals the nails from camp,” said Patsy, “a handful at a time. Look at the size of his fist!” I gave Zia Maddalena the garments we had brought. “Good!” she said, “so we shall have something decent for Pasqua, black too; are we not both widows? She lost her husband, I mine, but she saved her money. Well, what’s to be done about it? We are alive, that’s always something.” Zia Maddalena was stout of heart; she had nothing but smiles for us. “I hope they can have one of the barracks,” I said as we walked back to camp. Patsy of course knew all about it. “When the houses are finished,” he explained, “Belknap will turn them over to the local authorities. He’s been pestered for them already, especially by Messinesi who claim to be American citizens. The allotment of the houses [Illustration: MESSINA. AMERICAN COTTAGES, VILLAGGIO REGINA ELENA. _Page 305._] won’t be an easy job for anybody; the municipality must tackle it. There’s a good fighting chance for our friends. The aunt of Caterina is the grandmother of Gasperone. She is officially connected with the camp, a person of influence!” We were picking our way through almost impassable streets, climbing mountains of debris. At one place we found ourselves on a level with the second story of what had been a handsome bedroom. The front of the palace had fallen into the heap of ruins on which we were standing. Two white beds stood side by side. On the wall hung a costly mirror without even a crack. Near the door were two trunks and a valise with the labels of several fashionable continental hotels. “The people who lived here?” I said. “Under the ruins; they had just returned from their wedding journey,” said Caterina. That afternoon J. took me to the Villaggio Regina Elena on the other side of Messina. Like our camp, it is beautifully situated on the edge of a _torrente_, facing the straits. As we drove over the fine road, I could hardly credit what J. told me, that both road and village had been built since the earthquake. We were met by two Italian officers; one carried J. off to look over the site for the American quarter here, the other offered to show me the Villaggio.