“How old was he when you took him?”
“Like Rosita over there.” The mother gestured toward the smaller one of the two little girls.
Florence glanced over at the child, who, she judged, must be about a year and a half old. So Carlitos had been with this family about seven years, she thought. “Where is his mother?” she asked.
“Ah, she died and left her baby with me. I was his nurse.”
“That was too bad. Wasn’t there any relative to take him?”
The woman shook her head. “No one.”
The thought darted through Florence’s mind that perhaps after all Carlitos was American or English. Since he had been so young when he was taken into this family, he could not have remembered any of his native language.
“Was his mother an American?” she asked.
“Yes, and she was so good to me and so beautiful. She had eyes of blue just like Carlitos’.”
Just then Jo Ann crossed over to Florence’s side. “Did I hear right? Did she say Carlitos was an American?”