Star of Light by Patricia M. St. John

training to be a nurse she had felt that God wanted her to go to Africa to help people and to care for poor, ragged children. Elizabeth and her husband thought it was a foolish thing to do, and Aunt Rosemary had found it difficult to write and tell them about her life.
    Their letters had mainly been about Jenny, and every Christmas Elizabeth had sent Rosemary a photograph of her as she grew up, and Rosemary had kept them all in a little photo album. The last picture had been of Jenny on her pony. Rosemary wonderedhow Jenny would feel about the simple toys the Moorish children enjoyed. She was used to expensive dolls and proper beds and riding her pony about her father’s estate. She would probably get very bored. Feeling rather sad, Rosemary hurried back down the mountain with her flowers, collected a happy, sticky Kinza, and went home.
    She went to the toy cupboard and inspected it rather sadly. There were some shabby scrapbooks, faded puzzles, and chipped bricks, some scruffy little dolls, and a box of stubby chalk. They had all obviously been enjoyed by children who had never seen toys before, and all the toys were well-worn. Rosemary shut the cupboard with a sigh and went to the kitchen to make buns.
    By half-past four the little house was as bright as scrubbing and polishing could make it, and the sitting room was sweet with the scent of wildflowers. Tea was ready, the kettle was singing on the stove, and Rosemary and Kinza set out to meet the car in front of the hotel.
    It arrived punctually, a smart, streamlined vehicle, and the little boys surged around, fighting each other in their efforts to carry the luggage. Rosemary stood waiting for her relatives to get out, and above the pandemonium she heard a child’s voice cry out, “Oh, Mummy, look! What a sweet little girl! You never told me Aunt Rosemary had a little girl.”
    The moment they extricated themselves from the mob of little boys, Elizabeth, looking just as young as she had looked ten years before, was kissing her cousin warmly. Jenny was squatting on the ground,trying to make friends with Kinza.
    “Jenny,” said her mother sharply, “you haven’t greeted Aunt Rosemary.”
    Jenny got up, kissed her aunt politely, and turned back to Kinza. While the adults sorted out the luggage, passports, and forms, Rosemary stood quietly watching the child whom for years she had longed to see.
An elfin-looking child
, she thought, and went over to make friends.
    Jenny turned a troubled face to her aunt. “What is the matter with this little girl?” she asked. “I showed her my pretty brooch, and she just stared in front of her.”
    “I’m afraid she’s blind, Jenny,” said Rosemary gently. “But it doesn’t mean you can’t play with her. You must give her toys she can feel, and you must sing to her and let her touch you. She’ll soon love you.”
    Rosemary lifted Kinza’s tiny hand and passed it lightly over Jenny’s face and hair. “That’s how she gets to know people,” she explained, and then turned to speak to Jenny’s mother and father. But before she could say anything, Jenny had seized her mother’s hand and was looking up at her, her grey eyes brimming with tears.
    “She’s blind, Mummy,” she whispered, “like the little Christmas children.”
    “Never mind,” replied Mrs. Swift gently. “She looks like a very happy little girl, and we must find her a little present. Now, let’s come and see Aunt Rosemary’s house.”
    They set off across the market, the grown-ups walking ahead and Jenny leading Kinza, too interested inher new playmate to notice much of the town about her. She was happier than she had been all the holiday for, much as she loved her mother and father, she was only nine, and she longed for other children to play with. Most of all she longed for something to look after. She was too old for dolls, her pets had all been left at home, and she missed them dreadfully. But a curly-haired blind baby of three was far better