On Monday evening, wishing to consult the doctor about a new installment of clothing, I went to his door. There were voices in the office; the doctor had a patient, so I sat down outside to wait. It was a perfect evening; the sky was still flushed with sunset, the first star stood over the tall spire of the little Gothic church at the _campo santo_. The dusk fell softly; on the heights above Messina, the outlines of the old Saracen fort were blurred in the violet afterglow. The tramp of the sentinel marked time. Another sound broke the twilight stillness, the sound of the royal march played by a band. Where could it come from? In all Messina there had not been found so much as a drum for the procession. The music came nearer and nearer, a new sound mingled with it, the sound of voices singing and cheering. Lanterns were brought out, the mess-room door thrown open. By the light that streamed out I saw a cab, decked with green branches, drawn by a horse gay with white ostrich plumes. Two of our carpenters sat in the cab, which was followed by a pair of ox-carts, filled with chairs occupied by the carpenters’ guests. The three vehicles were surrounded by a crowd of people, singing and cheering. “Long live the American carpenters!” Some of our men had spent the day at a neighboring village, that had escaped the earthquake; they had been escorted home by the whole population. The band departed playing the merry march; the sound grew fainter and fainter in the distance. A bright fire lighted up the dark interior of the little shanty, opposite the Camp, built by Zia Maddalena and Cousin Sofia; the tinkle of Spofford’s guitar repeated the gay notes of the march--how good it was to hear the joyous sounds! “Will you please tell this woman,” the doctor spoke sternly to his interpreter, “that this child has small-pox. If she doesn’t report it immediately to the health authorities it will go hard with her. She may be fined, or imprisoned for neglecting to do so and it may prove fatal to her child. It’s a menace to the community. Please make her understand this fully, as I shall immediately report the case myself.” The poor mother, dazed and sorrow-stricken, buried her face in the little bundle in her arms and went weeping to the hospital, where the child--all that the earthquake had left to her--would be taken away from her--perhaps never to be returned. The next morning at breakfast an unmistakable hint was dropped that my visit had best come to an end. Nothing was said about smallpox--it may, indeed, have had nothing to do with the hint. I have always believed, however, that had it not been for the sick baby, I might have enjoyed a few more days at the Mosella. That day news came to the Camp of Marion Crawford’s death.