“My husband was a government employé formerly,” the old woman continued; “he was a postman.” She shook him gently by the arm. “Cannot you speak to the lady?” The old postman moved his lips dumbly. “He is only seventy-eight years old, and I am seventy,” Rosina went on. “Francesco is our youngest son.” I asked the young woman her name. “Lucia,” she said, and hid her face again. The young man comforted her. “She will do better soon,” said the old woman, nodding to me. “When do you expect the baby?” I asked. “Tomorrow,” she said, “it will be nine months tomorrow, the first child, we have not been married quite a year.” Her soft eyes overflowed again. “Do not cry. You have your husband and you will have your child. That is something to be thankful for. Did all your family escape?” “Yes, all that were in our house, six of us,” said Francesco. “We do not know about the others.” I heard a deep sigh behind me and turned to see a little wan child, bandaged and pillowed up in a great bed. She never stirred or smiled during my whole visit. When I spoke to her, she only gazed at me with great sombre eyes that had lost their childishness, eyes that had seen sights of horror they could never forget. “That is my grandchild Caterina,” the old woman explained. “She has been lame from birth. When we escaped from the house I carried her in my arms. As we ran the earth beneath us opened and threw stones at us. One of them struck Caterina and broke her lame leg.” “Tell me how you escaped?” The young man, Francesco Calabresi, a plumber of Messina, now spoke: “We slept in two rooms on the ground floor behind the shop. We were all asleep in bed when the earthquake came. There were three long shocks and the earth groaned as it rocked from side to side as if it were in pain. Though the house fell down about us we were not hurt. The door into the street was jammed and would not open. I found a small hole in the wall near it and managed to crawl through it and to help the others out.” “It was dark, and cold, and it rained--Oh, God, how it rained!” cried the old woman, “and we were all, except Lucia, naked as the day we were born.” Lucia smiled for the first time and opened her dress to show me her high chemise. “Yes, I had this on; it was the only thing we saved.” She was evidently proud that she alone of all the family had escaped with a garment to hide her nakedness. In Sicily the old Italian habit of sleeping without night clothes still prevails. There is a widespread prejudice against night clothes. Nena, an old Venetian servant, once told me that it was very unwholesome to sleep _dressed_. This absolute nakedness, both of the living and of the dead, seemed to the rescuers the last touch of horror.