A slim slip of a boy, with dark brown eyes and pale olive skin, walked at the head of a pair of fawn-colored oxen as he turned homeward from the market-place of a small village in the north of Portugal.

The village was just a humble collection of narrow streets paved with round, worn cobble stones; a few shops and a long, one-storied inn; a group of cottages and two or three larger houses, and a little white granite church.

Along the street through which Jose Almaida passed with the oxen, the market-day produce was spread out under the trees. There were great piles of maize-cobs, potatoes, chestnuts and beans; baskets full of grapes, figs and apples; strings of garlic and onions; heaps of giant early yellow gourds, scarlet pimentos and deep red tomatoes; panniers of fish, fresh and salted, and red earthenware household dishes, crocks and water-jars.

Jose had exchanged the grapes, onions and tomatoes, which he had brought from the home farm, for a small amount of tea and of hard, brown salted codfish,—now the only luxuries of the Almaida family. In the rough ox-cart, Carlos, his dog, a thick-nosed pointer, white with brown spots, mounted guard over these provisions.

The market-place was no new sight to Jose. He did not stop in passing along the street, except at the village fountain to fill a jar with water for an old woman. Around the fountain good-natured looking groups of women were talking over village affairs,—women in peasant dress of dark, full short skirts, bright-colored waists, and gay red, blue or orange kerchiefs over their shoulders and hanging from under their round pork-pie black hats. Each woman carried a boat-shaped basket or a water-jar upon her head.

Little Jose was a familiar figure on the market-day. For five months past, he had done the family marketing, sometimes with his oldest sister Joanna as companion, but often, as to-day, alone. At each greeting, he bowed and pulled off his long black knitted stocking-cap.

To-day, early in October, the market-place had confused him. He had heard groups of men saying that the king had gone away from the country, never to return, and that there would be great changes in Portugal.

Jose had three miles to travel before dark. There was no time to lose, so he urged on the oxen. But every now and then, out on the main road, he turned to look back toward the village, shading his eyes with his hand. Not seeing what he sought, he urged on the oxen again with the goad, which was twice as long as himself.

The road was steep. The oxen plodded on with low-bowed heads. They were small and intelligent-looking oxen with strong shoulders and wide-branched horns. Above their heavy yoke rose the canga, or head-board, the pride of the Portuguese farmer. This was a piece of hard wood, about eighteen inches high and five feet wide, and handsomely carved in open work. It was the same kind of head-board used by the Romans two thousand years ago, when they held control of Portugal.

The up-hill road had many sharp stones. But the boy's hardened bare feet heeded them not. Carlos jumped from the cart to run by his master's side. Jose gave the dog a loving pat: "Ah, Carlos, brother Antonio does not come yet."

The dog was the only one who knew Jose's secret. He looked up with eyes which seemed full of sympathy, and put his nose into the boy's hand.

Along the wayside were rows and rows of oaks, chestnuts, planes, and most of all, white poplars. The poplars were covered to the top by trailing vines, loaded with purple grapes. On the hillsides were scattered little cottages, whitewashed or painted pale blue, pink, or buff, with red-tiled roofs. Every cottage which Jose passed had its shady porch built with trellis covering, and heavy bunches of grapes hung over the heads of women spinning at the open doorways, surrounded by quiet, bare-foot children.

In the distance stood green pine-covered hills. Farther away rose vast mountains, peak upon peak, purple now in the shadows of the October afternoon.

It is a beautiful, mountainous country, this Minho region around GuimarÃes, the old capital city. Minho is Portugal's richest province. And here, it is said, faces are brighter and manners gentler than anywhere else in Portugal.

Up-hill the road wound always. Jose met many other boys, barefooted like himself, but usually older, driving oxen or pannier-loaded donkeys. The boys were dressed, as he was, in loose white linen shirt and blue cotton trousers which came just to the knees, a scarlet sash wound three times around the waist, a long, knitted black cap, and a jacket of brown homespun slung upon one shoulder. Sometimes the cap was red or green, but oftenest black; and it ended in a tassel which hung down the back.

Many a bare-foot girl, too, trudged along the road, dressed in peasant costume, and driving a donkey with a short stick.

With a last wistful look in the direction of the village, Jose turned the oxen from the main road into the rough wooded lane which led to his father's home. The ox-cart creaked and rumbled over the uneven ground. Like all such carts in Portugal, it was made of four or five boards laid flat and resting upon two supports. It had two wheels of solid wood, without spokes, and with iron tires, fixed fast to an axle which turned with the wheels. Long as the three mile journey was to Jose, it was easier to walk than to ride in the jolting car.

Jose felt very tired. Although it was almost sunset time, he stopped the oxen and threw himself down near a clump of fragrant shrubs to rest before the last half mile of the hard journey. Carlos came and licked his master's face, then darted off after a red-legged partridge.

Upon this young boy had fallen the man's duty in a family of six, including himself,—a now helpless father, a hard-working mother, and three sisters. Since May, when the Senhor Almaida had a stroke of paralysis, Jose had done the heavy work—for a young boy—of caring for the oxen, the cow, the chickens and pig. Besides, he had done what he could, with the help of Joanna, the seventeen-year-old sister, to carry on the farm garden and the vineyard.

There was an elder brother, Antonio, now twenty-one years old. He had left home, four years ago, to seek his fortune in America. It was this elder brother whom Jose had been eagerly looking for during the last four months.

Joanna had at once written to Antonio of the father's illness, but had not suggested Antonio's return. "We must not send for Antonio," she and her mother decided. Three times each year they had received money from this elder brother; and the money would be even a greater help now that the father could not work.

Jose had been given the letter to post on a village market-day. It was then that the plan for his secret came to him. At the correio, post-office, he spent all the money he had ever owned for a post-card and stamp,—twenty reas, two cents, for the card and twenty reas more, for a two-cent stamp. On one side of the card he copied in printed letters, Antonio's American address; on the other side he wrote the words: "Please come home. We need you. Jose."

How glad the boy was then that in the evenings last winter his father had taught him to write and to spell,—something which very few Portuguese children know.

For a long time after mailing the post-card Jose felt very guilty with the heavy burden of his secret. As days and weeks went by, the burden grew lighter, but the desire for Antonio's return grew stronger.

No letter had come from Antonio since Joanna had written. No money had come, either. This fact, which caused anxiety to the elders, gave Jose strong hope. He felt that Antonio's not sending any money meant that Antonio himself was coming.