She shrugged. "Oh--_eef_ you care more for some ol' horse than you' _brawther_----" The C.E. (although he could dispense with her society very cheerfully) helps me to understand her, and through her, Mexico, this sad, bad, pitiful, charming, lovable, hateful land! Lupe's Emilio is by way of being a poet, it seems, and he has sent her a little song, which we have translated, and I put it into rhyme, and the C.E.--who has a very decorative voice indeed--hums it to a lonesome little tune distantly related to La Golondrina. Here it is: "Thro' the uncolored years before I knew you My days were just a string of wooden beads; I told them dully off, a weary number ... The silly cares, the foolish little needs. "But now and evermore, because I've known you, They've turned to precious pearls and limpid jade, Clear amethysts as deep as seas eternal, And heart's-blood rubies that will never fade. "You never knew, and now you never will know; Some joys are given; mine were only lent. You see, I do not reckon years or distance; Somewhere I know you _are_; I am content. "I do not need your pity or your presence To bridge the widening gulf of now and then; It is enough for me to know my jewels Can never turn to wooden beads again." Of course, to be tiresomely exact, he's _always_ known her, and she is entirely aware of his devotion, and he can reckon the time and distance quite easily with the aid of a time-table, but, as the C.E. says, "it listens well." Off to La Ciudad de Mexico in the morning! _Con todo mi corazon_, JANE. P.S. I might remark in passing that it's a perfectly good _corazon_ again, sane and sound and whole, and summons only dimly a memory of New York.... _Mexico City._ SARAH, my dear, I've given up trying to date my letters. I've lost count of time. We've been here for many golden days and silver nights, in a land of warm eyes and soft words, where _peons_ take off their _sombreros_ and step aside to let my Grace pass, and Murillo beggar boys are named--"Florentino Buenaventura, awaiting your commands!"