Even Grandma ate those enchiladas without hesitation, though they were so peppery that she had to cool her mouth with frequent swallows of water. They were made of tidily rolled _tortillas_ (Mexican corn-cakes, paper-thin), stuffed with meat and onion and invitingly decorated with minced cheese and onion tops. They looked, smelled and tasted delicious. In turn, Grandma sent biscuits, baked in the Dutch oven Grandpa had bought her. Grandma had always been proud of her biscuits. In July the Mexican children took Dick and Rose-Ellen to the vacation school held every summer in one of the town churches. The Beechams were not surprised at Nico's dressed-up daintiness when she called for them. Grandma said she was perfect, from the ribbon bows on her shining hair to the socks that matched her smart print dress. But it was surprising to see Vicente come from the cluttered, dirty Garcia rooms, almost as clean and sweet as Nico, though with nails more violently red. The Beechams found it a problem to dress at all in their chicken-apartment. Dick tried to get ready in one room and Rose-Ellen in the other, and everything she wanted was in his room and everything he wanted in hers. Their small belongings had to be packed in boxes, and all the boxes emptied out to find them. Clean clothes--still unironed, of course--had to be hung up, and they could not be covered well enough so flies and moth-millers did not speck them. "I do admire your Mexican friends," Grandma admitted grudgingly, "keeping so nice in such a hullabaloo." "They are admire-able in lots of ways," Rose-Ellen answered. "I never knew anyone I liked much better than Nico. And the Mexicans are the very best in all the art work at the vacation school. I think the Japanese learn quickest." "Do folks treat 'em nice?" asked Grandma. "In the school," Rose-Ellen told her. "But outside school they act like even Nico had smallpox. They make me sick!" Rose-Ellen spoke both indignantly and sorrowfully. That very day the three girls had come out of the church together, and had paused to look over the neat picket fence of the yard next the church. It seemed a sweet little yard, smelling of newly cut grass and flowers. Trees rose high above the small house, and inside the fence were tall spires of delphinium, bluer than the sky. [Illustration: Looking over the fence] "The flowers iss so pretty," said Nico. "And on the porch behind of the vines is a chicken in a gold cage," cried Vicente. Rose-Ellen folded her lips over a giggle, for the chicken was a canary. Just then a head popped up behind a red rosebush. The lady of the house was gathering flowers, and she held out a bunch to Rose-Ellen. "Don't prick yourself," she warned. "Are you the one they call Rose-Ellen?" "Yes, ma'am," said Rose-Ellen, burying her nose in the flowers. "I had a little sister named Rose-Ellen," the woman said gently. "You come play on the grass sometime, and we'll pick flowers for your mother."