“So he is, but your mother’s got your sister’s husband there, that’s just like a son to her. He looks after things real good, don’t he?” “Yes, he does, or else Blythe would have to give up his idea of studying law. Mother is real well off with Ellen and Henry and three or four hands in the field.” This was the kind of talk which failed to interest Alison, who by this time had reached the cabin where Pedro and Lolita lived, and was greeted with soft Spanish endearments by Lolita. Even the very modest abode of these despised Mexicans appeared more attractive in Alison’s eyes than the one occupied by the Haleys. Lolita was on her knees deftly rubbing the metate stone in order to prepare the corn for tortillas. Jumping from her horse Alison watched her and presently joined her in slapping the thin round cakes, winning praise for her skill from her little friend. “Oh, I assure you,” said Alison, laughing, “I am mightily pleased to be eating tortillas with you to-day and I hope we are to have frijoles and tamales as well, for I am hungrier than you can imagine. I never can eat heartily of the breakfasts that Hannah Maria likes.” Lolita promised her the frijoles and the tamales, and Alison sat contentedly slapping out tortillas while Lolita prepared the black beans and the meat compound, well seasoned with red pepper and onions and done up in corn husks, a savory dish to those who could stand the pepper. Presently Lolita, who had been busy over her work, exclaimed: “Señor Van Dorn, cara mia.” “Dear me,” Alison did not look up, “let him find me if he can. Is he coming this way, Lolita?” “He look you all place. No is find.” “It won’t hurt him to hunt awhile longer. He should know that I am here.” And, indeed, Blythe did soon become aware of the fact, for it was not long before he sauntered up to the two girls. “Well, Miss Alison,” he said, “are you turning Mexican?” “Yes, I am fain to come over here once in a while to earn my dinner or else die of ’og and ’ominy, as old British Tom calls it. Don’t you like tortillas?” “When they are prepared by such fair hands as yours.” “Nonsense, that has nothing to do with it,” said Alison, unresponsive to his sentimentality. “Lolita makes them far better than I do. Did you want to see Pedro? He is out by the hog-yard, or somewhere about.” “You know I have no business with Pedro.” “Have you business with anybody?” asked Alison saucily. “If you would permit it.” “I’ve nothing to do with business of any kind at present,--I am all for pleasure. That’s why I came over to help Lolita make tortillas.” “May I stay and help you eat them?” “You must ask Lolita.” As Blythe was not yet very apt with Spanish he preferred his request in his own tongue and was surprised that Lolita answered him in perfectly correct English, telling him he was quite welcome. “She certainly is a beauty,” whispered the young man to Alison. “It is a pity she is a Mexican.” “And why?” asked Alison.