. . !"
"The Garcias maybe, but not the Martinezes," Rose-Ellen objected.
"Gramma, you go to their houses sometime and see."
One evening Grandma did. Jimmie had come excitedly leading home
the quaintest of all the babies of the Mexican village, Vicente
Garcia's little sister. He had found her balancing on her
stomach on the bank of the ditch. Three years old, she was, and
slim and straight, with enormous eyes and a great tangle of
sunburned brown curls. Her dress made her quainter still, for it
was low-necked and sleeveless, and came to her tiny ankles so
that she looked like a child from an old-fashioned picture.
Grandma and Rose-Ellen and Jimmie walked home with her, and
Grandma's eyes widened at sight of the two-roomed Garcia house.
Ten people lived and slept, ate and cooked there, and it looked
as if it had never met a broom or soapsuds.
The Martinez home was different, perfectly neat, even to the
scrubbed oilcloth on the table. Afterwards Grandma said the
bottoms of the pans weren't scoured, but she couldn't feel to
blame Mrs. Martinez, with five young ones besides the new baby to
look after. When the Beechams went home, Mrs. Martinez gave them
a covered dish of _enchiladas_.
Even Grandma ate those enchiladas without hesitation, though they
were so peppery that she had to cool her mouth with frequent
swallows of water.
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