Mattina’s eyes brightened.
“A pocket!” she exclaimed, “like the big maids have!”
“You are well nigh a big maid now!”
The word pocket reminded Mattina of her sugared almonds.
“Kyra Sophoula,” she begged, “see, I have some sweets here. A sailor gave them to me, he said they were from a christening. Take them, you, and hide them away, and to-morrow after I go, take this little one to your house for a while, and give them to him. He cries when I leave him; and the others at the house, they torment him always. Do this for me, and may your children live to you!”
The old woman took the twist of muslin and put it into her apron pocket.
“Surely, I will, my daughter, surely I will.” Then she lifted her pitcher which had filled, gurgled, and overflowed, set it carefully on the ledge, and turned to Zacharia who was struggling for what remained of his koulouri, with a woolly black puppy.
“Come here, you little one!”
MATTINA·SAT·DOWN·