The Alameda is a handsome park in the very middle of the town, and marks the site of the old Aztec _tianguiz_, or market-place. Fountains and flowers abound, and it is lavishly planted with beautiful eucalyptus and palms; an excellent band plays daily. The _pajarera_ (aviary) around which the children cluster is very poor, considering the beauty and variety of the Mexican birds and the Aztec traditions in this regard. The park has no railing around it--one can stroll in from the broad Avenida Juarez. The drawback to the stone benches, placed at intervals, is that the most prominent have graven upon them the words, “_Eusebio Gayosso_”--the name of the _popular undertaker_. In the midst of life you are in death there. However, the eternal Indians, sunning themselves and their offspring on the benches, can’t read; they have this advantage over any _ilustrado_ who might want to rest a bit. N. has just returned with the anxiously awaited answer, which is quite beside the point. Huerta is probably sparring for time. He proffers vague, pleasant words in answer to the very definite message of the President, to the effect that he has always been animated by the most patriotic desires, that he will always limit his acts to the law, and that after the elections he will scrupulously respect the public wish and will recognize any person elected as President for the term to the 30th of November, 1916. N. recommends the withdrawal of the Embassy if, after the 23d of this month, when a new congress is to be convened, Huerta has not resigned. This might influence Huerta; and again, he may consider it only another cry of wolf. The fact is, nobody believes we really will intervene. The chances that we shall depart on a war-ship instead of by the Ward Line are very good, the “d” in this instance making all the difference. I shall hate to leave this palpitating, prismatic sort of life; but it isn’t the moment to have personal feelings of any sort. Driving back this evening toward a beautiful, clear, red sunset, up the Plateros between the rows of autos and carriages full of handsomely dressed people, the men standing along the edge of the pavement as they do in Rome on the Corso, it seemed impossible that I was looking at a people over whom a great national humiliation was hanging. The crowds become more and more Mexican every day, with fewer American faces.