Uncle John requested them to rob him as modestly as possible without
conflicting with their sense of duty, and they assured him they would do
so.
The rooms were adorable. They faced the sea and had little balconies
that gave one a view of the blue Mediterranean far beneath, with lovely
Isola Bella and the Capo San Andrea nestling on its bosom. To the right
towered the majestic peak of Etna, its crest just now golden red in the
dying sunset.
The girls drew in deep breaths and stood silent in a very ecstacy of
delight. At their feet was a terraced garden, running downward two
hundred feet to where the crag fell sheer to the sea. It was glorious
with blooming flowers of every sort that grows, and the people on the
balconies imagined at the moment they had been transferred to an earthly
paradise too fair and sweet for ordinary mortals. And then the glow of
the sun faded softly and twilight took its place. Far down the winding
road could be seen the train of carriages returning from the station,
the vetturini singing their native songs as the horses slowly ascended
the slope. An unseen organ somewhere in the distance ground out a
Neapolitan folk song, and fresh and youthful voices sang a clear, high
toned accompaniment.
Even practical Uncle John stood absorbed and admiring until the soft
voice of the facchino called to ask if he wanted hot water in which to
bathe before dinner.
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