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  “And what if she doesn’t find them?” asked one little boy. “Will she put her out in the street?”

  Ayashi looked up quickly. “She will not,” he replied with complete confidence.

  “How do you know? Why not? It is not her child!” exclaimed the other children all together.

  “Because,” answered Ayashi simply, “she has a clean heart.”

  Supper at the Nurse’s Home

  The rest of the day passed pleasantly. Ayashi, pleased by Hamid’s admiration, took him around the town and up onto the hillside to show him the spring of water welling up from the heart of the mountain. It never failed and kept the city supplied and the fields around it fresh and green.

  At midday they hung around the door of the hotel. After a time, a waiter flung them some broken rolls and meat that guests had left on their plates, and the boys fell upon the food like hungry dogs. Then they curled themselves against the trunk of the eucalyptus tree and slept in the shade.

  Evening came, and Hamid stuck close to Ayashi. They sat on some steps together with a few friends, watching the country people crowding into the square. Tomorrow was market day, and those who had come from a distance would spread out their sacks against the wall and sleep beside their wares. As darkness fell, the shopkeepers lit their lamps again, and other little boys sauntered up from their various jobs and collected on the steps.

  “Come,” said Ayashi, who seemed to be a sort of leader among them. “She will soon open her door now.”

  He beckoned Hamid to follow him, but Hamid hesitated. He felt torn in two. Hunger and his great longing to see whether all was well with his little sister urged him on, but caution held him back. What if he should be forced to speak while Kinza was there? She would certainly recognize his voice and run to him, and then everyone would be suspicious.

  “Come on,” called Ayashi impatiently, looking back.

  Hamid shook his head. “I’m not coming,” he replied, and sat down again on the steps with his head in his hands, staring gloomily into the market. Then he got up suddenly, for he had had an idea. He would not go in, but he would creep to the door of the house, as he had done the night before, and peep through a crack. Perhaps he would catch a glimpse of Kinza.

  Like some guilty little thief, he darted into the quiet back street and sneaked along the wall toward the open door.

  He peered around very cautiously, but there was no sign or sound of her—only the murmuring of voices, and then the shrill noise of the little boys singing. Kinza was apparently nowhere about, and he was standing in a very dangerous position. He shuffled onto the rubbish heap and began to cry quietly because his friends and his little sister were all inside the house where there was shelter and light and food—and he was left outside.

  And then something happened. The door opened a little farther, and the nurse stepped out into the street to see if any more boys were coming before she started the lesson. She appeared silently, and Hamid did not see her at first. But she heard a wretched, sniffing sound close by and, looking around, she spotted him on the rubbish heap.

  Hamid jumped up, frightened, but she stood between him and freedom and he could not escape, so he rubbed away his tears and crouched, staring up at her. He had never seen anyone like her before.

  “Why don’t you come in?” she asked.

  Attracted by a sense of welcome, he got up and walked slowly toward her. She waited quite still, afraid of startling him. Then, when he was close to her, she held out her hand. He took it and stepped trustfully through the doorway with her.

  They entered the lighted room together, and Hamid took a good look around. It was a long whitewashed room with a rush mat on the floor and mattresses against the wall. At one end the boys sat cross-legged in a semicircle. On the wall opposite the door was the picture of the saint smiling down on them, just as He had smiled down on Kinza.

  “Come,” said the nurse, “sit down with the others. I’m going to show you something.”

  Ayashi grinned at him delightedly, and Hamid wormed his way into the semicircle and sat beside him. The boys looked younger here somehow, not like men of the world anymore.

  The nurse sat down on the mattress in front of them and showed them a little Book. It was quite unlike the Koran, which was the only book Hamid had ever seen inside. None of the boys could read at all, anyway.

  The nurse explained how God lived in a place like a bright golden city—heaven—where there were only good things and happiness.

  I’d like to go there, thought Hamid. It would be even better than our village—no fear, no quarreling, no blindness.

  But while he was thinking about this wonderful place, the nurse told them that because of the bad things people do wrong, God cannot let them into the city. The gate is shut to wrongdoers. Hamid had never worried about doing wrong before—in fact, he had never even thought about what wrong was. Of course he stole if he got the chance, and naturally he told lies if they would save him from a beating—why shouldn’t he?

  Then the nurse went on to tell them a strange story. Apparently, God’s Son, whose name was Jesus, had left this wonderful city and come down into the world to live with the people He loved. At the end, He had died on a cross, as a punishment for all the wrong things everybody had ever done. He had done nothing wrong Himself and didn’t deserve to die, but because He loved people so much, He wanted them to be able to go and live in His home— heaven—with Him. He had died in place of everyone else—even bad, lying, thieving little boys like Hamid and the rest of the gang. All they had to do was say they were sorry and ask Jesus to forgive them.

  Then the nurse stopped talking and brought in two great bowls of steaming rice and handed around hunks of bread. The children divided up into two groups and huddled over their supper, scooping up the food at an amazing pace, then polishing the bowls with their dirty little fingers. No one spoke much until the last lick and crumb had vanished because they were racing each other to get the most. When every bit was gone, they sat back on their heels and questioned the nurse about the little girl whom they had found in the passage the night before.

  “She is still with me,” she said, smiling a little. “She is, at this moment, asleep in bed.”

  Hamid looked at her hard. She did not seem to be annoyed at Kinza still being with her.

  “I took her all around the town with me today,” went on the nurse, “but nobody has ever seen her before, or knows who her parents are. She is a little blind girl, so I suppose no one wants her.”

  “And what will you do with her?” asked the boys all together.

  “Well, I shall have to keep her for the moment; there’s nothing else to be done.” This time she laughed outright, and Hamid nearly laughed, too, with joy and relief. He had a wild, reckless longing to see his little sister asleep in bed, and he was no longer afraid. He waited until the little boys had bowed and shaken hands with their hostess and skipped off into the dark. Then she turned and found him lingering in the passage. His heart was beating violently, but he spoke steadily and boldly.

  “I come from a village,” he said, “and in my village there are two or three blind baby girls whose parents come into the market. Let me see her, and perhaps I can tell you who her mother is.”

  The nurse looked down at him, surprised. She had certainly never seen this little boy before, and he might be speaking the truth. She had watched him since he had entered her house and noticed his thin, tired face and his bruised feet—also the ravenous way he had fallen on his food. She guessed he had traveled a long way and was glad to shelter him, so she led him to a room upstairs, where Kinza lay on a mattress, fast asleep.

  She looked different because she had had a bath and had come out quite another color. Also her hair had been washed and cut, and instead of her tangles she had soft, dark curls falling over her forehead. Her old dress had been changed for a little white nightdress, spotlessly clean. Hamid gazed at her, fascinated, for a while, and then looked around the room. It was brig
htly lit and furnished simply, but there were pretty covers on the mattresses, books on the shelves, and pictures on the walls. He longed to stay with her but knew it was not possible.

  “I do not know her,” he said gravely. “She is not one of the children from our village.”

  He followed the nurse downstairs in silence, and she came to the door and let him out. He stepped into the street, looked up into her face, and took hold of the hand that had been so kind to Kinza.

  “You are good,” he said simply. “Your food is good; your teaching is good; your heart is good. May God have mercy on your ancestors!”

  Then he bounded away down the street and disappeared into the darkness.

  Hamid Learns a Lesson for Life

  Hamid kept his job at the doughnut shop. He worked hard, and his master was usually quite kind to him, giving him his breakfast and his coin regularly. The coin he spent on lunch, and the nurse provided him with his supper. He slept with Ayashi just inside the mosque, and as long as the sun shone and the weather kept warm, he was happy. There was always plenty to do. The boys helped with the harvesting and picked olives. On hot days they went bathing in the rocky stream that flowed from the spring in the mountain and washed all their dirt away.

  Five days a week, they went to the house of the English nurse. Hamid knew many stories about Jesus now. He knew that He was not a saint at all, but the Son of God who had come down into this world. He knew that the lame and the blind had come to Jesus, and He had healed them. Hamid wished that he also had lived then, for he would have carried Kinza to Him, and her eyes would have been opened. He knew that Jesus had died with His arms stretched out in welcome on a cross, and He had been placed in a rock tomb. He had come to life again and left the tomb. Then He had been seen in a beautiful garden.

  He knew, too, that Jesus had gone back to heaven, the City of Light, and was still alive, and that the living Spirit of Jesus was willing to come into the hearts of people to make them good.

  Summer turned into autumn, and the nights became colder and longer. There were no more tourists in the hotel now, so there were no cars to watch and no luggage to carry. The boys often begged for money or scraps at rich people’s houses. Life became hard and uncertain. The only comfort that could really be depended on was supper at the house of the English nurse.

  She lit a charcoal fire for them these nights and let them in early. They would troop across her hall, leaving a trail of black footprints on the tiles, their rags dripping. Then they would huddle around the glowing coals to warm their blue fingers, and gradually their teeth would stop chattering.

  Clothes were a great problem. The wind and rain pierced and rotted their rags, and Hamid wondered just how much longer his flimsy summer gown would hold together. He did not know what he would do when it finally fell to pieces. Some of his friends had begged or stolen sacks, but Hamid had not been so lucky.

  Kinza, on the other hand, had no clothes problem. She always went shopping with the English nurse, and Hamid often saw her waddling across the market on legs that had grown amazingly fat and sturdy during the past two months. Over her clean gown she wore a red woolly jersey and a little brown cloak. She had rubber shoes on her feet and a woolly hood over her dark curls. She looked the picture of health and happiness, and Hamid, edging up as close as possible, felt very proud of her.

  The rain was pouring down one night when the children splashed their way up the cobbles and hammered on the door of their refuge. They shook themselves on the step like wet little dogs and surged forward toward the fire, puffing and blowing and sniffing. The English nurse felt especially sorry for them, for she thought she had never seen them look so wretched and sad. Yet they lifted their merry, cheeky faces to her and their dark eyes were still bright. She marveled at their courage.

  But there was one well-known little figure missing, and this was the second night he had not turned up—an undersized shrimp of a boy who had come regularly for months.

  “Where is Abd-el-Khader?” the nurse asked.

  “He can’t come,” replied one child in a careless voice. “His rags fell right to pieces, and he hasn’t a father. He has nothing to wear at all, and he must stay at home till his mother can save enough to buy a sugar sack.”

  No one seemed to care or seemed surprised, and the evening passed as usual. But when supper was finished the nurse turned to Hamid, who always lingered to the last. “Do you know where Abd-el-Khader lives?” she asked.

  Hamid nodded. “Up at the top of the town by the prickly-pear hedges,” he replied, “but the path is like a muddy river. You could not go there tonight.”

  “I think I could,” said the nurse, “and if you would like to earn a little money, you can take me there.”

  Hamid nodded enthusiastically. He liked Abd-el-Khader. He waited at the bottom of the stairs while the nurse went upstairs to sort out some old clothes, and while he waited, his bright eyes roamed around the house. He had never been left alone before, and he found it very interesting. He poked his nose into the room on the left and found himself in a little kitchen. On one shelf stood a china bowl of eggs, just low enough for him to help himself.

  Hamid hesitated. He could not count, but perhaps the nurse could and would notice if he took two. On the other hand, raw eggs sucked through a little hole in the top were delicious, and Hamid had not tasted one for a long time. He decided it was worth the risk. If he waited outside the door, the nurse would never see in the darkness. Even if she noticed later, she would not be able to prove it was him.

  So he took an egg in each hand, slipped out into the street, and stood waiting in the dark. Soon the nurse appeared with a bundle and a key, and, what Hamid had not bargained for, a powerful flashlight.

  “Come along,” said the nurse, turning on her flashlight. “Walk with me and we can both walk in the light.”

  But to the nurse’s surprise, Hamid did not wish to walk in the light. He seemed to be taking great care to keep out of the the beam, slinking along the gutters, shuffling against the wall. It was very dark and very muddy, and once or twice he slipped, clutching his precious eggs tightly in both hands.

  “Why won’t you walk with me in the middle of the road?” asked the nurse, puzzled. “You will fall if you run along in the gutter like that.”

  “I’m all right,” muttered Hamid rather miserably. He was not enjoying himself at all. He was so afraid of that broad beam of light, and the eggs somehow did not seem worth it. He wished he could get rid of them, and yet at the same time he wanted to hold on to them.

  It was pitch black away from the light, and when they started climbing the steep back alleys Hamid could not see where he was going at all. Suddenly his foot caught on an unexpected step, and he fell headlong on his face. He gave a sharp cry of shock and pain, and the nurse, who was a little ahead, turned around quickly and shone the light full onto him.

  She saw him struggle to his feet, his gown covered with black mud and yellow egg yolk. She saw his hands clasping the smashed shells and his grazed knees streaming with blood, and she understood at once what had happened. He would have scuttled away from her, but she took hold of him quickly, and he burst into frightened tears. He had no idea what she would do. She might fetch the police and put him in prison, or she might beat him in the street. Whatever she did or did not do, he felt sure she would never have him in her house again. Never again would he enter that place of warmth and light. He would be shut out, and it was all his own fault.

  Then through his sobs he heard the voice of the nurse speaking quietly to him. “Come along,” she said. “You’ve cut your knees badly. We’ll go home and bandage them up, and then you can show me the way again afterward.” She kept tight hold of him, and they walked home in silence, except for Hamid’s sniffs. When they got there, she locked the door on the inside.

  Still silent and ashamed, Hamid washed his hands under the tap, and then the nurse sat him down and bathed his black knees till the cuts and grazes were quite clean. She p
ut ointment and bandages on them, then she took a good look at him. He sat slumped in a sorry little heap covered with mud and raw egg. The only clean parts about him were the little tracks on his cheeks made by his tears.

  Still without speaking, she went upstairs where she kept a bundle of old clothes, and she came back with a clean shirt and a grey woolly sweater that had been mended many times. Then she fetched more warm water and soap and scrubbed him clean. Next she dressed him in his new clothes and sat down beside him.

  He looked up at her, marveling, for it was his very first experience of someone returning good for evil, and he could not understand it. Instead of prison and a beating, he had been given medicine and clean, beautiful clothes.

  “Hamid,” said the nurse beside him, “you fell over and hurt yourself because you would not walk in the light with me. You were afraid to walk in the light because you had stolen my eggs.”

  There was no answer.

  “You don’t deserve ever to come here again,” went on the nurse, “but they were my eggs and I paid for them, so I’m going to forgive you—only you must promise never to steal anything out of my house again.”

  Hamid nodded.

  “And remember,” said the nurse, speaking very slowly, “you could not walk in the light with me because of what you had done wrong. Jesus says He is the Light of the World. You must ask Him to forgive you for what you did tonight and then you must walk beside Him in His light every day until you get to heaven. He will make you feel clean inside, just as I made you feel clean outside when I washed away the mud and egg.”

  Hamid looked down at his clean clothes and bandages, and understood. His eggs, which had seemed so precious, were gone, but he did not want them anymore. He had been forgiven and washed and made clean. He had been brought back into the warmth and shelter of the nurse’s home. They were going out again into the dark to find Abd-el-Khader’s house, but it would be quite different now. He would walk close beside the nurse. He would not stumble, and he would not be afraid of the light any longer, because he no longer had anything to hide. They would walk guided by the flashlight’s bright, steady beam. It would be a treat.