dry cow-skin which was spread on the clay floor, was the object of
her visit, surrounded by a group of Mexican companions, playing a game
called monte. The absorbing interest taken in the cards had prevented
the inmates of the jacal from noticing the lady's approach until
she stood opposite the door. On the appearance of a woman, the game
instantly ceased. Recognition was mutual, but neither mother nor son
spoke a word. Her eye took in the surroundings at a glance. Finally
she spoke with a half-concealed imperiousness of tone, though her
voice was quiet and kindly.

"Alexander, if you wish to see your mother, come to San Antonio, won't
you, please?" and turning, she retraced her steps toward the carriage.

Her son arose from his squatting posture, hitching up one side of his
trousers, then the other, for he was suspenderless, and following at
a distance, scratching his head and hitching his trousers alternately,
he at last managed to say, "Ah, well--why--if you can wait a few
moments till I change my clothes, I'll--I'll go with you right now."

This being consented to, he returned to the cabin, made the necessary
change, and stood before them a picture of health, bewhiskered and
bronzed like a pirate. As he was halfway to the vehicle, he turned
back, and taking the old black hands of Tiburcio in his own, said in
good Spanish, though there was a huskiness in his voice, "That lady
is my mother. I may never see you again. I don't think I will. You may
have for your own everything I leave."

There were tears in the old hunter's eyes as he relinquished young
Wells's hands and watched him fade from his sight. His mother, unable
to live longer without him, had made the trip from New York, and now