“I cannot help it,” I replied. “I am literally overpowered, and as it is in the cause of charity, I suppose it does not matter.” “Well, I don’t know about that,” he answered; “but you must leave some pathway, besides which you are blocking the road; you will be taken up as a public nuisance.” This was really too much. Telephoning for assistance to a high official at Scotland Yard, who chanced to be a personal friend, he soon sent me a special constable. One was not enough. He had to send for another policeman. But as every little butcher boy told every other little butcher boy what was going on, and as every loafer told every other loafer to come and see, an inspector had also to be requisitioned. For four days we were guarded by three stalwart policemen, who kept an eye on us for a further length of time. “Pass along, please. Pass along, please,” became a well-known cry in the Terrace. Verily it was a blockade—especially after the papers extolled the novelty of the scene. Then nurses and perambulators came to have a look at us; ladies in grand motors drove round to see the sight; Bath chairs added to the confusion; and, above all, the unemployed at one time threatened serious trouble. But to go back in the history of events which led to the Siege of York Terrace. It was Christmas, 1908. We were only a party of twelve, but amongst my guests was His Excellency the Italian Ambassador, the Marquis di San Giuliano. We ate turkey and plum-pudding, cracked crackers, and made merry in the usual Christmas fashion. The Ambassador and I talked much of Sicily, of its sunshine, its people and the happy months I had spent there, and then of his family who lived in or near Catania, not far from Messina. Jovial, contented, and pleased we parted at midnight on that Friday. Before daylight on the Monday following two hundred thousand people had been killed, wounded, or rendered homeless in a few seconds in Messina. Terrible indeed was the disaster. The earth opened and practically swallowed Reggio on the opposite shore, while a huge wave overswept the Sicilian coast. Houses fell like packs of cards, and the beautiful city of Messina cracked to pieces like the smashing of glass. For hours—yes, for many hours—the Italian Ambassador in London did not even know whether his entire family had been swept away or not. All his relations felt the shock, though happily none succumbed. His son, the late Marquis di Capizzi, wrote to me a couple of days after the catastrophe, and said: “We are still suffering from the terrible impressions of the earthquake that completely destroyed Messina, killing nearly 200,000 persons. It lasted so long and so much that we were sure we should all be killed here (Catania) and yet we escaped.” Then followed details of death, horror, and misery, of starvation and naked humanity running about in torrential rain. Thus flashed across my mind an idea which matured in the above-mentioned letter to the Press: “CLOTHING FOR SICILY