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nowhere, and just before daybreak he fell into a deep sleep. Two hours later he was woken by his stepfather prodding him with his foot.
    “Wake up, you lazy creature!” growled Si Mohamed. “It’s time you had the goats out.”
    Hamid rolled off his mattress, washed his face and hands in a bucket of water, and started to eat his breakfast. Gobbling his bread and sipping his bowl of coffee, he glanced at his mother. Her face was pale, and there were dark circles under her eyes, but she did not look as unhappy as he had expected. There was a very determined expression on her face, as though she had made up her mind about something. Once Hamid found her staring hard at him, and he stared firmly back. She raised her eyebrows a little and he gave a slight nod. A secret understanding flashed between them. As soon as they could, they would talk together.
    They did not have to wait very long. Hamid took the goats on to the hillside. With a crust of bread saved from his breakfast, he bribed a friend to watch them for him, then he crept back and watched through a gap in the hedge. Soon he saw his mothergo across to where the grindstone stood, and after a few minutes he slipped in and joined her.
    Kinza was sitting as usual with her face turned toward the eastern mountain, waiting for the sun to rise. Zohra sat cross-legged, turning the heavy wheel that crushed the corn.
    Hamid crouched down beside her and touched her arm. “Mother,” he whispered, “I heard last night. Is it the old beggar who is to have Kinza?”
    His mother turned toward him, and her calm, steady gaze rested on him for a moment, as if she were making a decision. He was a thin little boy, small for his age, but very tough—and his love for Kinza was very strong.
    “So my husband thinks,” she replied, “but I say that it shall not be. I will not have Kinza starved in those cruel streets. No, Hamid, you must take her somewhere else. You can save her if you wish.”
    “Me!” echoed Hamid, amazed. But the look he gave his mother was reassuring—full of bravery and willing courage.

Hamid Agrees to Help

    L isten,” said Zohra, and Hamid’s eyes never left her face as she spoke. All his life he would remember what she said to him that day.
    “Four years ago,” she said, “your father took me to the tomb across the mountains. We left you children with your grandmother, but I carried your little brother Absalom on my back, because he was only a baby. After we had visited the tomb, your father wanted to go on to the town farther on. All day long we walked, from sunrise to sunset, in the burning heat. By the time we reached the town, my feet were cut and blistered and Absalom was crying and feverish. His eyelids were swollen and stuck together, and he could not look at the light.
    “Next morning, your father went off to the marketto trade, but I sat holding my baby, shading his eyes from the light and brushing the flies off him. As I sat there, a woman from the town came up and began chatting to me, and she noticed the child.
    “‘Your baby is sick?’ she asked.
    “‘Yes,’ I replied, and turned his face so that she could see.
    “She got up quickly. ‘Come quick,’ she said. ‘There’s an English nurse—she’ll give you good medicine and heal your baby. She healed my little boy when he rubbed prickly-pear thorns into his eyes.’
    “I hung back. ‘I have no money,’ I said.
    “‘It doesn’t matter,’ replied the woman. ‘She is a holy woman and heals without money because she loves her saint. He is a good saint and has mercy on the poor.’
    “‘But,’ I objected, ‘the English are rich and live in grand houses. She will not receive me.’
    “‘But she lives in one of our houses,’ answered the woman, ‘and those who go to her for healing are mostly poor. None are ever turned away—I tell you, she receives them in the name of her saint.’
    “So I followed, feeling afraid, but eager for medicine that would cure my baby’s