“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.  He seemed ten or twelve years of age, but might have been much older.

As soon as the American had returned to the path the boy came toward him in an eager, excited way, and exclaimed: 

“Is it not Signor Merrick?”

The English was fluent, and only rendered softer by the foreign intonation.

“It is,” said Uncle John, cheerfully.  “Where did you drop from, my lad?  I thought these hills were deserted, until now.”

“I am sent by a friend,” answered the boy, speaking rapidly and regarding the man with appealing glances.  “He is in much trouble, signore, and asks your aid.”

“A friend?  Who is it?”

“The name he gave me is Ferralti, signore.  He is near to this place, in the hills yonder, and unable to return to the town without assistance.”

“Ferralti.  H-m-m.  Is he hurt?”

“Badly, signore; from a fall on the rocks.”

“And he sent for me?”

“Yes, signore.  I know you by sight—­who does not?—­and as I hurried along I saw you standing on the rock.  It is most fortunate.  Will you hasten to your friend, then?  I will lead you to him.”

Uncle John hesitated.  He ought to be getting home, instead of penetrating still farther into these rocky fastnesses.  And Ferralti was no especial friend, to claim his assistance.  But then the thought occurred that this young Italian had befriended both him and his nieces in an extremity, and was therefore entitled to consideration when trouble in turn overtook himself.  The natural impulse of this thought was to go to his assistance.

“All right, my lad,” said he.  “Lead on, and I’ll see what can be done for Ferralti.  Is it far?”

“Not far, signore.”

With nervous, impatient steps the child started up the narrow path and Uncle John followed—­not slowly, but scarcely fast enough to satisfy his zealous guide.

“What is your name, little one?”

“Tato, signore.”

“Where do you live?”

“Near by, signore.”

“And how did you happen to find Ferralti?”

“By chance, signore.”