“I can’t _take_ you; but there’s nothing to prevent your all making a trip to Sicily. You have always wanted to--” he looked at me. “This is your chance, a little later though--it’s such a cold season.” “How can he be so keen about getting back to that awful place?” I exclaimed. “It’s because there is so much more work to do there than there ever was in the world before,” said Vera. “Every one who has been down feels the same way.” “You have said it!” This from Patsy, the golden butterfly. “A man’s happiest when he’s working to the limit, when there’s not one minute of time left in the day to get a grouch on!” “What have you to say about it?” said Vera, looking at J. “I would rather have had this letter than a big commission; we may start any day. You will see the Q.’s? Bonanno is sure to ask news of them,” J. went on. “Let’s go now,” said Vera. “The Q.’s are far the most interesting of your _profughi_.” There was still time before sunset, so Vera and I, escorted by Patsy, started to walk to the Q.’s. We crossed the Tiber, pausing on the bridge to watch the soldiers, maneuvering the big awkward pontoons on the river above, the part that makes the curve of the S. It was a gorgeous afternoon; the air was golden, sparkling, full of life. “‘How tenderly the haughty day fills his blue urn with fire!’” Patsy quoted. “I bet that was written in Rome!” On the Lungo Tevere a young officer passed, riding a spirited bay. “Look out!” cried Patsy warningly. Vera, startled by the prancing horse, sprang aside; the officer saluted. “It’s Philippus!” I cried, as the bay danced along sidewise like a skittish crab. “Whoever he is, he ought to give that beast more work and less corn!” Patsy flicked the dust the bay had kicked up from his sleeve. “No matter about the dust; he’s alive! We shall all be dust soon enough.” Patsy left us at the gate. Although there was a nip in the air, we found old Count Q. in the garden. “Babbo sits out whenever he can,” said Rosalia, oldest of the Count’s seven remaining daughters. “Since the earthquake he knows no peace within.” When I told them J. was going to Messina, the Count’s drawn face changed; he began to sob pitifully. Rosalia, a faded beauty with tragic eyes (she had lain beneath the ruins of their house at Messina for twenty-four hours), put a finger to her lips. “Speak not of Sicily, I pray!” she whispered, “though in truth he thinks of nothing else. He dreams each night the house is falling.” The Count is seventy years old, and paralyzed. His house was destroyed with his oldest son’s next door. For days he heard his son’s voice and his little grandchildren’s calling for help. They were buried so deep that when help came it was too late. One of the granddaughters was the girl of the emerald scarab ring Bonanno told us of. “How goes on the sewing?” I asked Rosalia.