er than ever. Ignacio, the most
adventurous in the family, her brother who had disappeared for ten years
without sending any news--!

How was he? What face? Dressed how?--Did he seem happy, at least, or was
he poorly dressed?

"Oh!" replied the sailor, "he looked well, in spite of his gray hair; as
for his costume, he appeared to be a man of means, with a beautiful gold
chain on his belt."

And that was all he could say, with this naive and rude good-day of
which he was the bearer; on the subject of the exile he knew no more
and perhaps, until she died, Franchita would learn nothing more of that
brother, almost non-existing, like a phantom.

Then, when he had emptied a glass of cider, he went on his road, the
strange messenger, who was going to his village. Then, they sat at table
without speaking, the mother and the son: she, the silent Franchita,
absent minded, with tears shining in her eyes; he, worried also, but in
a different manner, by the thought of that uncle living in adventures
over there.

When he ceased to be a child, when Ramuntcho began to desert from
school, to wish to follow the smugglers in the mountain, Franchita would
say to him:

"Anyway, you take after your uncle Ignacio, we shall never make anything
of you!--"

And it was true that he took after his uncle Ignacio, that he was
fascinated by all the things that are dangerous, unknown and far-off--

To-night, therefore, if she did not talk to her son of the message
which had just been transmitted to them, the reason was she divined
his meditation on America and was afraid of his answers. Besides, among
country people, the little profound and intimate dramas are played
without words, with misunderstandings that are never cleared up, with
phrases only guessed at and with obstinate silence.

But, as they were finishing their meal, they heard a chorus of young and
gay voices, coming near, accompanied by a drum, the boys of Etchezar,
coming for Ramuntcho to bring him with them in their parade with music
around the village, following the custom of New Year's eve, to go into
every house, drink in it a glass of cider and give a joyous serenade to
an old time tune.

And Ramuntcho, forgetting Uruguay and the mysterious uncle, became a
child again, in the pleasure of following them and of singing with them
along the obscure roads, enraptured especially by the thought that they
would go to the house of the Detcharry family and that he would see
agai