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[6] peak, purple now in the shadows of the October afternoon.

It is a beautiful, mountainous country, this Minho region. . . Read More