"His first, best country ever is at home."
—Oliver Goldsmith.
The few moments of rest in the sweet, cool air refreshed Jose. He jumped up quickly. The farm-work must be done before nightfall.
Carlos was barking excitedly. Had he caught the red-legged partridge? Jose turned to see. No, the dog was running toward a stranger, who was walking rapidly in their direction.
Could it be Antonio? Jose's heart-beats almost choked him. But no; this was a well-dressed stranger, with shoes on. He was evidently a man from the city, and a traveller, too, because he carried a hand-bag. And he had a black moustache. Of course it was not Antonio. Antonio would be barefooted; Antonio had no moustache.
"JOSE CALLED TO THE DOG TO LEAVE OFF BARKING."
Jose called to the dog to leave off barking. The stranger drew near. Stopping, he stroked one of the fawn-brown oxen. He looked at Jose with piercing dark eyes. His olive skin was clear and sunburned.
"Do you live near here, boy?"
Jose pulled off his cap as he answered:
"Sim, Senhor—Yes, sir—a half mile away."