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  An hour later, Rosemary was sitting in the big hotel dining room, under a cut-glass chandelier, eating a four-course dinner with Jenny and her parents, who had all dressed up in their very best to welcome her. It was a great treat to Rosemary to come out to supper, and there was always so much to say when she and Elizabeth got together. Tonight the conversation turned to Kinza.

  “She’s such a beautiful little creature,” said Elizabeth. “It seems so cruel that she should be blind. What are you going to do with her in the future, Rosemary?”

  “I would like her to go to a training school in about three years’ time,” said Rosemary, “where she can learn Braille and basketwork. She could earn her own living like that out here, and when she was really good she could come back to me.”

  Jenny leaned forward across the table, nearly upsetting her glass in her eagerness. “The blind school, Daddy,” she cried, “where they invited us at Christmas. If Kinza went there, Mummy, she could come and stay with us sometimes, and I’d look after her. It would be like having a little sister, and I’d see her lots and lots, and she’d be so happy if I was there. They had such a lovely time at Christmas. Oh, when can she come, Auntie Rosemary? Couldn’t we take her home with us this time?”

  The cousins looked at each other questioningly.

  “It’s not a bad idea of Jenny’s,” said Mrs. Swift. “It’s a very good school, and they take them quite young. John could easily get her in free. He’s on the board and has a lot of influence. The sooner she goes, the more quickly she’ll learn English. Also, she could travel with us in the car instead of you having to bring her.”

  Rosemary hesitated. She didn’t know what to answer. It was all so sudden. Jenny was jumping up and down in her chair in her excitement.

  “Jenny gets tired of these long car drives,” added Mrs. Swift. “She’s always much happier if there’s another child in the car.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” replied Rosemary. “It’s really very kind of you … but somehow she seems too small to go away just yet. Could I think it over and give you an answer in a day or two?”

  “Of course,” answered Mrs. Swift. “Just let us know when you feel sure. No, Jenny, don’t go on and on about it. People can’t make up their minds on important matters without a little think first, or they may make them up wrongly.”

  “I’ve made mine up on this important matter,” announced Jenny dramatically. “Oh, Auntie Rosemary, I’m sure you’ll say yes. It really does seem to be the best idea I’ve had in my whole life. Even Mummy and Daddy think it’s good. Oh, look, Daddy, there is ice cream for pudding, the kind you don’t like. Please, will you pretend you’d like one, and I’ll eat it for you as well as mine.”

  In her excitement at the possibility of getting extra ice cream, Jenny forgot about Kinza for the moment, and they talked about other things until Rosemary got up to go.

  “John and I will take you home,” said Mrs. Swift, getting up. “Jenny, darling, run up to bed.”

  “All right,” answered Jenny, who, having enjoyed extra ice cream, was in a good mood. She flung her arms around her aunt’s neck and pulled her head down close to her mouth, so that no one could hear what they were saying.

  “You are going to think hard about it, aren’t you, Auntie?” she whispered.

  “Yes, Jenny, very hard. I’m going to ask God to show me the right way.”

  “Do you think He’ll have shown you by tomorrow morning?”

  “I don’t know, Jenny—it’s such a big thing. Give me two days.”

  “Well, ask Him to show you as quickly as possible—and ask Him to let it be yes.”

  “Couldn’t you ask too?”

  “I don’t really know how to … but I’ll try. Good night, Auntie Rosemary.”

  “Good night, Jenny.”

  She gently loosened the child’s clinging arms and set out across the dark marketplace with Mr. and Mrs. Swift. Under the streetlamp she turned to wave, and Jenny waved back, black against the bright background of the huge doorway.

  Jenny Learns a Hard Lesson

  Hamid welcomed the coming of spring and the warmer weather. Winter is hard when your only clothes are rags. The clothes that the English nurse had given him had fallen to pieces, but this no longer mattered. Now the sun shone warm and comforting, the storks nested in the towers, flowers clothed the mountains, and cherry and peach blossoms made the valley beautiful. Baby goats skipped and jostled in the streets, and Hamid, like all other young things, had grown several inches and looked more like a scarecrow than ever. He sat on the step of the doughnut stall, licking the oil off his fingers and watching the seething market with bright, observant eyes.

  There was always so much to see on market days, and amid all the busyness of people coming and going, Hamid saw Kinza in a scarlet jersey prancing along between Jenny and the English nurse who had come out to do her shopping.

  Then in a flash he caught sight of something else. He thought he was dreaming for a second, and he rubbed his eyes and looked again. He was not dreaming. He went white under his tan, turned a backward somersault into the shop, and hid himself securely between the stone oven and the doughnut counter. Then he peeped out, like a startled rabbit from its hole, to watch what would happen next.

  His stepfather stood rigid in a doorway across the aisle, staring fixedly at the little group who were buying oranges, unaware of him. Then, drawing a step or two nearer, he watched Kinza as a snake might watch a baby rabbit at play, awaiting its moment to strike. His keen eyes were taking in everything—the blind gestures, the happy freedom of her baby talk, the stout little shoes, and the warm clothes. As the three went over to the oil merchant’s shop he followed, coming so close to his stepdaughter that for one breathless moment Hamid wondered if he was going to snatch her. But he did not touch her. He merely moved behind them, unnoticed in the jostling crowd, and Hamid saw that his black eyes burned with anger and his mouth was closed as tightly as a steel trap.

  Hamid, recovering from his first shock, was not afraid. His stepfather had come to the market on business and would probably leave the town that evening. He had not seen Hamid, nor would he see him, for at the earliest possible moment Hamid would run off into the mountains and keep company with the monkeys until after dark. He did not worry about Kinza at all—she was in the safekeeping of the English nurse, who loved her and would never let her go. Her home was a fortress that Si Mohamed could never enter.

  Hamid’s master arrived quite soon and was surprised and annoyed to find his assistant under the counter instead of behind it. He boxed his ears, which Hamid did not mind in the least, and took some money off his pay, which he minded quite a lot. Once released, his nimble brown feet crisscrossed the danger zone of the marketplace, where his stepfather lurked, and he made for the cobbled path that ran along the outskirts of the town.

  Kinza, Jenny, and Rosemary made their way home and never noticed the sinister figure of the man who followed them as far as the entrance of the street and stood watching until the door of the house closed behind them. It was almost time for the clinic to open. Usually, while Aunt Rosemary worked there, Kinza sat on the front step in the sunshine and talked to her kitten, and the patients stepped over or around her. But during the past two weeks she had often gone to play with Jenny, who loved looking after her. So now, with her new storybook that she had brought to show her aunt in one hand, and Kinza holding on to the other, Jenny set off to find her mother and father at the hotel.

  The little girls threaded their way through the market crowds and entered the Tower Gardens, which lay between them and the hotel. There was no one in the gardens, for everyone was busy in the market, and the sleepy silence made Jenny want to linger. She thought of her new book; she had just reached an exciting part, and this would be a lovely, quiet place to sit and read just for five minutes. Her mother had told her she was never to stop between her aunt’s house and the hotel, but after all, her mother did not know what time she set out. She sat down
in a pleasant little stone corner near the old archway, with Kinza beside her, and began to read her book.

  It was a story about a child just like Jenny, who had a pony of her own and rode in horse contests, just as she was going to do when she got home. She hardly noticed that Kinza had gotten up and started to wander along the path toward the archway. Kinza often went for little walks, her arms held out in front of her to avoid danger. When she felt she had gone far enough, she would stand still and squeak till someone fetched her back.

  Jenny read on eagerly, for she wanted to reach the end of the chapter and discover whether Annabel’s pony was going to win the cup for jumping or not. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Kinza standing in the archway. She must fetch her back in a minute.

  She skimmed to the end and got up quickly with a sigh of relief, because Annabel had won easily. But she felt guilty for having let Kinza stray through the archway alone. “Kinza!” she called eagerly, running into the other part of the gardens, and then she stopped short and her eyes grew big with fright.

  For the green grass in front of her was empty and deserted—there was no sign of Kinza anywhere.

  With her heart beating wildly, she ran from bush to bush, searching behind every one; up and down the steps she flew, back into the walled garden, but it was no good. Kinza had completely disappeared.

  Jenny rushed out into the market, half-blind with panic, bumping into people who turned to look at her anxiously, pushing her way in and out, searching frantically, with her pale, tear-stained cheeks and big, frightened eyes.

  At last she stood still, completely out of breath, and because there was nowhere else to look, and because she did not like people staring at her, she went back to the garden and stood alone by the archway, trying to decide what to do next.

  She simply could not go back. Aunt Rosemary had trusted her alone with Kinza, and she had failed completely in her trust. What would her aunt say? And worse still, where was Kinza? Had something terrible happened to her? Was she frightened or hurt and crying out, wondering why Jenny did not come to her? Jenny did not know. She burst into tears and ran sobbing to the hotel, up the stairs to her mother’s room, and into her arms.

  When Mrs. Swift finally managed to understand what had happened, she went rather white too. She dried Jenny’s eyes and took her by the hand.

  “We must go and tell Auntie Rosemary at once,” she said quietly. “We’ll have one more look in the marketplace on the way.”

  Jenny stood quite still. “I can’t go to Aunt Rosemary,” she said tragically, “I just can’t, Mummy. You’ll have to go and tell her.”

  “No,” said Mrs. Swift, still quietly but very firmly, “you must come and tell her yourself. You see, Jenny, this has happened because you were disobedient and untrustworthy, and you must be brave and take the blame you deserve. And we must go now, at once, because if anyone has taken Kinza, every moment may matter. Daddy will come with us.”

  It was a silent little party that set out from the hotel. Mr. Swift suggested that he should do one more quick search of the marketplace while Jenny and her mother searched the gardens again. Ten minutes later they met again, solemn and worried.

  “Well,” said Mr. Swift, “the sooner we get Rosemary onto this the better. She can speak the language and question people.”

  They met Rosemary coming across the market to look for Kinza at the hotel, as it was dinnertime. Mr. Swift told her what had happened, and while he spoke, Jenny stood a little apart, her eyes fixed on the ground, not daring to look at her aunt’s face. She wondered what her aunt would say, and whether she would be angry with her right there in the middle of the market. But nothing was said about her carelessness just then. Everyone seemed to have forgotten about it. All they were thinking about was Kinza.

  They went back to the walled garden to see the exact place so that Rosemary could question the shopkeepers nearest the spot, but no one could give her any news. Whatever had happened had happened just on the other side of the archway, and the archway was hidden from the road by a high wall. There were three exits from that part of the garden, and one led straight out onto a lonely country road that branched off in the next couple of miles into a dozen wild mountain tracks.

  “There are two possibilities,” said Rosemary at last, when all questioning had proved useless. “One is that she has been kidnapped for the sake of her clothes, and in that case the police might help us. The other is that her own people have decided they want her back and have stolen her away. In that case I’m afraid she has gone for good. After all, I have no claim against her own people. I don’t even know where she came from; I only know she was not a local child.” She stopped short as a new idea came into her head. “I wonder where Hamid is,” she went on eagerly. “I’ve often thought he had something to do with her—he might be able to give us some clue.”

  But not one of the boys who had collected to see what was going on knew where Hamid was. He had been at his job that morning, and was last seen heading for the mountains. Everyone volunteered to go look for him, and they scattered in all directions, for the Englishman would no doubt reward the finder handsomely. But no one succeeded in finding Hamid, for he was far up the ravine between the great rocks, throwing stones at the monkeys. So frightened was he of meeting his stepfather that he stayed there till long after sunset and missed the boys’ meeting for the first time in many weeks.

  The police, when they heard the story, were polite and sympathetic but not very hopeful. They promised to telephone the government outposts in the mountains to watch the main tracks and check up on travelers. But even if the child was found, what was there to prove that she did not belong to her captors?

  There was no more they could do, so they went sorrowfully back to Aunt Rosemary’s house to have some tea. But none of them felt hungry, and after a while Mr. and Mrs. Swift got up to go. Jenny, pale and wretched, followed them, still not daring to look at her aunt, who had actually hardly given her naughtiness a thought yet. She was far too worried about what could have happened to Kinza.

  Rosemary was glad to be left alone. She carried out the tea things and then came back into her little room and knelt down, meaning to pray for Kinza. But the kitten sprang up beside her, mewing for its little playmate, and under the cushion on which she rested her arms was something hard and knobby— Kinza’s wooden doll. She gazed around the room, and there was Kinza’s ball, Kinza’s mat, Kinza’s box of sweets that Jenny had given her. Everywhere she looked, there were signs of the missing, loved little girl, and Rosemary suddenly laid her head down on her arms and cried. Where was Kinza? What was happening to her? How terrified and homesick she would be, how helpless in her blind darkness! “Oh, God,” she cried, “take care of her; don’t let her be hurt or afraid; bring her back safely to me.”

  As she prayed she heard a little sob behind her and realized she was not alone in the room. She looked up quickly, and there in the doorway stood Jenny, white-faced and swollen-eyed with crying.

  “Jenny!” exclaimed Rosemary. “Does your Mummy know you’ve come?”

  “Yes,” said Jenny with a gulp. “I said I must see you alone, so Mummy brought me back to the door. You forgot to lock it, so I just came in, and she says please will you see me home when you’ve finished with me. I don’t suppose you want to see me at all … because … because … it was all my fault about Kinza. Oh, Auntie, whatever shall I do?”

  The last words came out with a rush of fresh tears, and Rosemary drew the trembling girl into the room, shut the door, and sat down beside her.

  “You can’t do anything, Jenny,” she said gently, “but God loves Kinza far more than we do, and He can do everything. Let’s kneel down and ask God together to shelter little Kinza and comfort her and keep her safe.”

  So they knelt side by side, and Rosemary prayed that Jesus would protect Kinza. Jenny listened and wondered, more miserable than she had ever been before. It’s all very well for Aunt Rosemary, she thought. When dreadful t
hings happened to her, she had a place where she could find forgiveness and peace and comfort. But Jenny knew no such refuge. She felt shut out in the dark. She would never forgive herself, and neither would anyone else, if Kinza was really lost.

  For the first time in her life, her naughtiness had really mattered, and there seemed no escape from the terrible results of it. Nearly every day she was self-willed and lost her temper if she couldn’t get what she wanted. But Mummy and Daddy were always nice and understanding about it, and remembered that, after all, she had been ill for three months. Now she had gone her own way and disobeyed once too often.

  If only Kinza could come back, said Jenny to herself, I would never be disobedient or naughty again. I’d be good forever and ever.

  Rescue Plans

  Rosemary spent most of the next day trying to trace Hamid, but Hamid was apparently determined not to be traced. Why should the English nurse want him urgently just then? Perhaps his stepfather had spoken to her and she was going to hand him over. It was all most suspicious, and Hamid decided to keep clear of her.

  However, the English nurse was so determined to find him that, on being told that Hamid had gone up into the mountains early, she canceled her boys’ meeting and settled herself just before sunset behind the pillar of the great stone archway through which he was likely to return. Before long, a weary little figure skulked in through the shadows, and she grabbed hold of him by what remained of his shirt.

  For a moment he struggled violently, but she spoke to him at once, and her words stopped him immediately and he stood still. “Hamid,” she was saying pleadingly, “I’ve lost Kinza. Please can you help me find her again? Do you know where she might have gone?”

  She kept tight hold of him, and he stood rigidly in front of her, gazing up at her uncertainly. At first he was too startled to think, but gradually his mind cleared and he began to put two and two together. If Kinza had disappeared, her stepfather had certainly taken her home. And if the nurse was searching for her, then she did not know about their stepfather. But it did not seem safe to tell; it might lead to contact with the police, and no little street boy ever wishes to have anything to do with the police. Or it might lead to meeting his family—or it might all be a trick or a trap. It was far safer to deny everything and have nothing to do with it.