in with an excited manner, followed by Madame Alguin, very much
troubled, wringing her hands, and dissolved in tears.

"Panchot's little boy," said the cook, "is killed."

We were naturally aghast. Little Panchot had been _colero_ at the recent
shearing.

"Is he dead?" we queried hoarsely.

"He was dead," replied the cook, with seriousness: "he is not dead now."

With this light and delicate touch the cook swept the gamut of our
emotions from awe at little Panchot's sudden taking off to pleasure at
his speedy resurrection. We repaired at once to Madame Alguin's
residence to view the subject of this miracle: lest the miracle should
not be so complete as one might wish, we carried with us a little
hartshorn and Pond's extract. Madame Alguin's villa was a fine
wide-spreading live-oak, with a tent as a sort of annex, about two
minutes from the ranch. On our arrival we found four Mexican women,
seven children, one man, three dogs, four goats, and several roosters,
gathered round the form of little Panchot stretched beneath the
live-oak. A fire smouldered a little way off, and a cradle hung from the
branch of the fatherly tree. Little Panchot had a nasty cut about an
inch long through his cheek. He had been herding his goats on the bank
of the creek when he was knocked over by a stone from the other side. He
swooned,--then he was dead; he came to,--and, _presto_, he was alive
again. He was soon running about with his wonted friskiness, and making
himself useful in chasing wild tennis-balls. This little boy's mother
was, poor woman, very much of a sloven, but he had a string of little