From this place came a characteristic letter from Neal Jordan to his friends. “We have had some tall fighting,” he wrote, “and there promises to be more of the same variety before we get to Mexico.” He then gave them a short, graphic description of the battle in which he had lately taken part, and closed by saying: “I wish some of you-all would write to me. Tell one of the girls I’ll bring her something pretty from Mexico if she will sit down and write me a real good letter and tell me what you-all are doing these days. I’ve not heard a word since John left and that seems a long time ago. I’d be glad to-day to see even an old hound dog if he came from any of you, and I ain’t sure but what I’d hug him.” “That sounds just like Neal,” said Alison. “Tina, you must write to him.” “Why must I any more than you?” “Oh, because you are the older.” “Nonsense, you have less to do, and you never mind writing.” “To be sure there is no lack of news,” said Alison, thoughtfully. “But I should think you would like to write to him when he is so eager to hear from us; it’s quite pathetic.” “If you feel that way you’d better go right to work and send him a budget. I am in no humor for it.” Therefore it was Alison who spent an entire afternoon in covering pages to send to Neal. A newsy, cheery letter it was, girlishly full of underscored words and enthusiastic accounts of what had happened in the past months since he left them. Details concerning home matters and certain favorite animals were not overlooked, and the frank, unstudied epistle warmed the heart of the young Texan Ranger, and made him so preoccupied as to bring upon him the mocking laughter of his comrades. More than once during the days which followed he took out the letter and read it over, lingering upon the last words: “Here’s love from us all. May you come back safe to John, Christine and Alison.” “I might have said ‘your friends, John, Christine and Alison,’” said the girl as she read over the lines; “that might have sounded better, but I cannot rewrite it, so it will have to go as it is.” “What, haven’t you finished that letter yet?” asked Christine, coming in as Alison was folding the sheet. “I wanted you to see about getting some milk for supper.” “I have just finished, and my fingers fairly ache from holding a pen so long. I wonder if I shall be able to milk. I will get Lolita to help me, I think. You may read my letter if you like. I think I have made it a fairly interesting one. Don’t seal it yet; I want to put something in it.” “What?” “Oh, a funny picture Blythe drew of you and me going out to milk. It will amuse Neal.”