Amine again started, she knew not why. “Is that your child?” said Amine, as a boy of about twelve years old entered the room.
“Yes,” replied the widow, “the only one that is left me. May God preserve him.” The boy was handsome and intelligent, and Amine, for her own reasons, did everything she could to make friends with him, and was successful.
Chapter Thirty Five.
Amine had just returned from an afternoon’s walk through the streets of Goa: she had made some purchases at different shops in the bazaar, and had brought them home under her mantilla. “Here, at last, thank Heaven, I am alone and not watched,” thought Amine, as she threw herself on the couch. “Philip, Philip, where are you?” exclaimed she. “I have now the means, and I soon will know.” Little Pedro, the son of the widow, entered the room, ran up to Amine and kissed her. “Tell me, Pedro, where is your mother.”
“She is gone out to see her friends this evening, and we are alone. I will stay with you.”
“Do so, dearest. Tell me, Pedro, can you keep a secret?”
“Yes, I will—tell it me.”
“Nay, I have nothing to tell, but I wish to do something: I wish to make a play, and you shall see things in your hand.”