The day was bright and balmy, the air bracing, the scenery unfolded step
by step magnificent and appealing. To be in this little corner of the
old world, amid ruins antedating the Christian era, and able to wholly
forget those awful stock and market reports of Wall street, was a
privilege the old gentleman greatly appreciated.
So away he trudged, exploring this path or that leading amongst the
rugged cliffs, until finally he began to take note of his erratic
wanderings and wonder where he was. Climbing an elevated rock near the
path he poised himself upon its peak and studied the landscape spread
out beneath him.
There was a patch of sea, with the dim Calabrian coast standing sentry
behind it. The nearer coast was hidden from view, but away at the left
was a dull white streak marking the old wall of Taormina, and above this
the ruined citadel and the ancient castle of Mola--each on its separate
peak.
"I must be getting back," he thought, and sliding down the surface of
the rock he presently returned to the path from whence he had climbed.
To his surprise he found a boy standing there and looking at him with
soft brown eyes that were both beautiful and intelligent. Uncle John was
as short as he was stout, but the boy scarcely reached to his shoulder.
He was slender and agile, and clothed in a grey corduroy suit that was
better in texture than the American had seen other Sicilian youths wear.
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