When the unexpected inheritance of a fortune changed the boy’s condition from one of dependence to one of importance he found he had no longer any wrongs to resent; therefore his surly and brusque moods gradually disappeared, and he became a pleasant companion to those he cared for.  With strangers he still remained reserved and suspicious, and occasionally the old sullen fits would seize him and it was well to avoid his society while they lasted.

On his arrival at Taormina, Kenneth had entered earnestly into the search for Uncle John, whom he regarded most affectionately; and, having passed the day tramping over the mountains, he would fill the evening with discussions and arguments with the nieces concerning the fate of their missing uncle.

But as the days dragged wearily away the search slackened and was finally abandoned.  Kenneth set up his easel in the garden and began to paint old Etna, with its wreath of snow and the soft gray cloud of vapor that perpetually hovered over it.

“Anyone with half a soul could paint that!” said Patsy; and as a proof of her assertion the boy did very well indeed, except that his uneasiness on Mr. Merrick’s account served to distract him more or less.

Nor was Kenneth the only uneasy one.  Mr. Watson, hard-headed man of resource as he was, grew more and more dejected as he realized the impossibility of interesting the authorities in the case.  The Sicilian officials were silent and uncommunicative; the Italians wholly indifferent.  If strangers came to Taormina and got into difficulties, the government was in no way to blame.  It was their duty to tolerate tourists, but those all too energetic foreigners must take care of themselves.

Probably Mr. Watson would have cabled the State Department at Washington for assistance had he not expected each day to put him in communication with his friend, and in the end he congratulated himself upon his patience.  The close of the week brought a sudden and startling change in the situation.

The girls sat on the shaded terrace one afternoon, watching the picture of Etna grow under Kenneth’s deft touches, when they observed a child approaching them with shy diffidence.  It was a beautiful Sicilian boy, with wonderful brown eyes and a delicate profile.  After assuring himself that the party of young Americans was quite separate from any straggling guest of the hotel, the child came near enough to say, in a low tone: 

“I have a message from Signor Merrick.”

They crowded around him eagerly then, raining questions from every side; but the boy shrank away and said, warningly: 

“If we are overheard, signorini mia, it will be very bad.  No one must suspect that I am here.”

“Is my uncle well?” asked Patsy, imploringly.

“Quite well, mees.”

“And have you also news of Count Ferralti?” anxiously enquired Louise.

“Oh, Ferralti?  He is better.  Some teeth are knocked out, but he eats very well without them,” replied the child, with an amused laugh.