CHAPTER XVI.
TATO When Uncle John passed through the west gate for a tramp along the mountain paths he was feeling in an especially happy and contented mood.
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.
As a rule the apparel of the children in this country seemed sadly neglected.
Yet the most attractive thing about this child was his face, which was delicate of contour, richly tinted to harmonize with his magnificent brown eyes, and so sensitive and expressive that it seemed able to convey the most subtle shades of emotion.