“I’m told Sicily is an island,” grumbled Uncle John.  “Here we are, on a trip to Eu-rope, and emigrating to an island the first thing we do.”

“Sicily is Europe, all right, Uncle,” answered Patsy.  “At least, it isn’t Asia or Africa.”

That assertion seemed to console him a little, and he grew cheerful again.

The evening was beautiful as they embarked, but soon after leaving the bay the little, tub-shaped steamer began to tumble and toss vigorously, so that all the passengers aboard speedily sought their berths.

Uncle John found himself in a stuffy little cabin that smelled of tar and various other flavors that were too mixed to be recognizable.  As a result he passed one of the most miserable nights of his life.

Toward morning he rolled out and dressed himself, preferring the deck to his bed, and the first breath of salt air did much to restore him.  Day was just breaking, and to the right he could see a tongue of fire flaming against the dark sky.

“What is that, sir?” he enquired of an officer who passed.

“That is Stromboli, signor, the great volcano of Lipari.  It is always in eruption.”

Uncle John groaned.

“Volcanoes to right of us, volcanoes to left of us volleyed and thundered,” he muttered dismally, as he fell back in his chair.

The sky brightened, and the breath of the breeze changed and came to him laden with delicious fragrance.

“See, signore!” called the officer, passing again; “before us is mighty Etna—­you can see it clearly from the bow.”

“Volcanoes in front of us, volcanoes behind us!” wailed the little man.  But he walked to the bow and saw the shores of Sicily looming in advance, with the outline of the stately mountain rising above and dominating it.

Then the sun burst forth, flooding all with a golden radiance that was magical in its gorgeous effects.  Patsy came on deck and stood beside her uncle, lost in rapturous admiration.  Beth soon followed her.

Before long they entered the Straits of Messina and passed between the classic rock of Scylla on the Calabrian coast, and the whirlpool of Charybdis at the point of the promontory of Faro, which forms the end of the famous “Golden Sickle” enclosing the Bay of Messina.

“If this is really Eu-rope, I’m glad we came,” said Uncle John, drawing a long breath as the ship came to anchor opposite the Palazzo Municipale.  “I don’t remember seeing anything prettier since we left New York.”

Presently they had loaded their trunks and hand baggage, and incidentally themselves, into the boat of the Hotel Trinacria which came alongside in charge of a sleepy porter.  After a brief examination at the custom-house, where Uncle John denied having either sugar, tobacco or perfumery, they followed on foot the truck laden with their worldly possessions, and soon reached the hotel.

A pleasant breakfast followed, which they ate before a window overlooking the busy marina, and then they drove about the town for a time to see in a casual way the “sights.”  In the afternoon they took the train for Taormina.  Messina seemed a delightful place, but if they were going to settle in Taormina for a time it would not pay them to unpack or linger on the way.