promenade, facing the harbor front, was crowded with people dressed in their best. The Syracusans walked up and down in family groups, father and mother behind, children in front, or sat upon benches in threes, young girl, young man, and the inevitable chaperon. There were few carriages, only one with pretensions, an antique barouche lined with mulberry cloth; coachman and footman wore liveries to match; horses and harnesses were fresh and handsome, the whole turnout was of the style of fifty years ago. The scene had a strong Spanish flavor. In Italy you expect to find the population on a _festa_ afternoon assembled in a piazza, the proper social center of every Italian community; in Spain the social center is the alameda, a long shaded promenade with seats and space for people to pace and talk. In the interval “between the selections,” we paced slowly up and down. My friend was a person of distinction; all the best-dressed people bowed very low to her. At one end of the Passeggiata the crowd was so great that we halted near a pool, enclosed by an iron railing. “_Ecco la fontana Aretusa_,” said the lady; she had been so busy bowing to right and to left, that she had hardly spoken since we entered the drive. The Fountain of Arethusa! Another of Sicily’s delicious surprises; in this fairy-land you meet old friends every moment. Arethusa! At her very name, the opening words of Shelley’s poem ring through the memory:-- “Arethusa arose From her couch of snows In the Acroceraunian mountains; From cloud and from crag With many a jag, Shepherding her bright fountains.” Arethusa, you remember? the lovely maiden of Elis, who was seen bathing and pursued by the river god, Alpheus. The maid, appealing to Artemis, was changed to a fountain, whereupon Alpheus mingled his stream with hers, and they both sank into the earth, passed under the sea, and rose again in Ortygia: “Like friends once parted, Grown single-hearted * * * * * Like spirits that lie In the azure sky When they love, but live no more!” Would you know how she looks to an artist? The next time you are at the Metropolitan Museum in New York, look at George Fuller’s lovely picture of Arethusa, and you will learn. The fountain rises from an arch in the rock and spreads into a wide picturesque pool, where papyrus and water lilies grow. The concert was over, the band put up their instruments, the crowd began to disperse; it was time to leave the Passeggiata Aretusa. As we drove back to the lady’s house she pointed out a large building. “See, they have nearly finished that labor--who knows when it would have been done if it had not been for the earthquake? The American Mees Davis had a hand in that.” “You know Miss Davis?” I asked.