We were in Athol’s library Wednesday evening when J.’s sailing orders came. The large pleasant room was just light and warm enough. There was a wood fire, there were flowers--blood-red Roman anemones--there were books and pictures, there was Athol himself (the man of whose mellow culture and sensitive taste, the room was an expression) seated in a beautiful Savonarola chair at an ancient, perfectly appointed table, writing despatches with pen and ink on large foolscap paper. “They have telephoned from the Embassy,” said Agnese, who brought the news, “that the Signore should be at the station at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. The Signora is invited to go as far as Civitavecchia with the Ambassadress and the other ladies to witness his departure--ah! sainted apostles! for that land of death!” Agnese disapproved of J.’s going down to Messina. “Give those unfortunates anything in reason,” she argued, “clothes, food, even a little money! But to go oneself, or even to allow one who is dear to go down to that--that _pozzo d’infezione_, ah! no, there is no reason in that! It is the act of the mad. Mama mia! Are there not enough dead already?” “You will be too late for Messina,” said Athol, looking up from his despatches. “They don’t like having foreigners about; the English ships from Malta were there a week ago but they found they were not wanted! You will find more than enough to do at the smaller villages; they have been neglected. Have you any flannel shirts?” “Hundreds,” said J. “For the _profughi_, yes, but for yourself? You’ll need them and flannel collars; I can lend you some and a hold-all. Have you seen the last subscriptions to the Lord Mayor’s Fund?” He handed J. a London paper with the list of subscribers to the English Earthquake Fund. There was a generous rivalry of “who shall give and do most?” between the Americans and English that was heart-warming. “You deserve a large share of the credit for this,” J. said; “I hope it will be set down to your account.” Athol’s telegrams and articles were read by English-speaking people all over the world; they had great influence in raising the Mansion House Fund, and other contributions. The next morning was gray and mild, a depressing sirocco day. Napoleone who drove us to the station was gloomy as Agnese about J.’s going to Messina. His clerical sympathies made him scoff at the value of all lay relief work.