They were on their way to the Temple of Minerva. The route led by a wide sea-street, half of whose length gave upon that famous Inner Harbour so often filled with hostile fleets, so often barred by great chains, so often echoing with clanging battles, with the bubbling shrieks of the drowning. Now the sparkling waters rolled untinged with blood, the clean salt air swept unhindered across their path, for half of the huge sea-wall had been recently demolished to let in wind and sun, though part still towered grimly, darkening the way, shutting out the light from the opposite dwellings. The path turned at right angles and wound through narrow foot-pathless cracks, between houses; cracks that served the older Syracuse in lieu of streets, where swarmed in the dingy narrownesses the everlasting goat, the ever pervasive child. Very different children these from those cherub heads, with busy little legs growing 146out of them, who formed the rising population of Taormina. Taormina, who has solved that whole question of educating children; a question which still so puzzles the unintelligent rest of mankind. For weeks they had walked the ancient ways of that high-perched town, picking careful steps amid its infant hordes, and never once had they heard a cry, or seen a discontented child. “Occupation was the secret of all that cherubic goodness, I think,” said Peripatetica reflectively. “Don’t you remember that every single one of them had a job?” “Of course, I remember,” said Jane crossly. “You needn’t remind me. It was only twenty-four hours ago we were there—though it seems ages since we fell out of the tender protecting care of dear ‘Questo-qui.’ You can put it all in the book if you feel you must talk about it.” “Jane, your usually charming temper has been spoiled by a night on a roof. It has made a cat of you,” persisted Peripatetica as she calmly circled round a goat. When the fount of her eloquence was unsealed it was not to be choked by the mere casting of a stony snub into it.