the letter was written, at least--he was all right. She went down
to supper with some cheerfulness, and took the letter to read aloud, by
snatches, during the meal.

A letter from Mexico was always an event in the Day household. Marty
was openly desirous of emulating "Uncle Brocky" and getting out of
Polktown--no matter where or how. Aunt 'Mira was inclined to wonder
how the ladies of Mexico dressed and deported themselves. Uncle Jason
observed:

"I've allus maintained that Broxton Day is a stubborn and foolish
feller. Why! see the strain he's been under these years since he went
down to that forsaken country. An' what for?"

"To make a fortune, Dad," interposed Marty. "Hi tunket! Wisht I was
in his shoes."

"Money ain't ev'rything," said Uncle Jason, succinctly.

"Well, it's a hull lot," proclaimed the son.

"I reckon that's so, Jason," Aunt Almira agreed. "It's his money
makin' that leaves Janice so comfterble here. And her automobile----"

"Oh, shucks! Is money wuth life?" demanded Mr. Day. "What good will
money be to him if he's stood up against one o' them dough walls and
shot at by a lot of slantindicular-eyed heathen?"

"Hoo!" shouted Marty. "The Mexicans ain't slant-eyed like Chinamen and
Japs."

"And they ain't heathen," added Aunt Almira. "They don't bow down to
figgers of wood and stone."

"Besides, Uncle," put in Janice, softly, and with a smile, "it is
_adobe_ not _dough_ they build their houses of."

"Huh!" snorted Uncle Jason. "Don't keer a continental. He's one
foolish man. He'd better throw up the whole business, come back here
to Polktown, and I'll let him have a piece of the old farm to till."

"Oh! that would be lovely, Uncle Jason!" cried Janice, clasping her
hands. "If he only _could_ retire to dear Polktown for the rest of his
life and we could live together in peace."

"Hi tunket!" exclaimed Marty, pushing back his chair from the supper
table just as the outer door opened. "He kin have _my_ share of the
old farm," for Marty had taken a mighty dislike to farming and had long
before this stated his desire to be a civil engineer.

"At it ag'in, air ye, Marty?" drawled a voice from the doorway. "If
repetition of what ye want makes detarmination, Mart, then you air the
most detarmined man since Lot's wife--and she was a woman, er-haw! haw!
haw!"

"Come in, Walky," said Uncle Jason, greeting the broad and ruddy face
of his neighbor with a brisk nod.

"Set up an