Star of Light by Patricia M. St. John

sound of her—only the murmuring of voices, and then the shrill noise of the little boyssinging. Kinza was apparently nowhere about, and he was standing in a very dangerous position. He shuffled onto the rubbish heap and began to cry quietly because his friends and his little sister were all inside the house where there was shelter and light and food—and he was left outside.
    And then something happened. The door opened a little farther, and the nurse stepped out into the street to see if any more boys were coming before she started the lesson. She appeared silently, and Hamid did not see her at first. But she heard a wretched, sniffing sound close by and, looking around, she spotted him on the rubbish heap.
    Hamid jumped up, frightened, but she stood between him and freedom and he could not escape, so he rubbed away his tears and crouched, staring up at her. He had never seen anyone like her before.
    “Why don’t you come in?” she asked.
    Attracted by a sense of welcome, he got up and walked slowly toward her. She waited quite still, afraid of startling him. Then, when he was close to her, she held out her hand. He took it and stepped trustfully through the doorway with her.
    They entered the lighted room together, and Hamid took a good look around. It was a long whitewashed room with a rush mat on the floor and mattresses against the wall. At one end the boys sat cross-legged in a semicircle. On the wall opposite the door was the picture of the saint smiling down on them, just as He had smiled down on Kinza.
    “Come,” said the nurse, “sit down with the others. I’m going to show you something.”
    Ayashi grinned at him delightedly, and Hamid wormed his way into the semicircle and sat beside him. The boys looked younger here somehow, not like men of the world anymore.
    The nurse sat down on the mattress in front of them and showed them a little Book. It was quite unlike the Koran, which was the only book Hamid had ever seen inside. None of the boys could read at all, anyway.
    The nurse explained how God lived in a place like a bright golden city—heaven—where there were only good things and happiness.
    I’d like to go there
, thought Hamid.
It would be even better than our village—no fear, no quarreling, no blindness
.
    But while he was thinking about this wonderful place, the nurse told them that because of the bad things people do wrong, God cannot let them into the city. The gate is shut to wrongdoers. Hamid had never worried about doing wrong before—in fact, he had never even thought about what wrong was. Of course he stole if he got the chance, and naturally he told lies if they would save him from a beating—why shouldn’t he?
    Then the nurse went on to tell them a strange story. Apparently, God’s Son, whose name was Jesus, had left this wonderful city and come down into the world to live with the people He loved. At the end, He had died on a cross, as a punishment for all the wrong things everybody had ever done. He had done nothing wrong Himself and didn’t deserve to die, but because He loved people so much, Hewanted them to be able to go and live in His home— heaven—with Him. He had died in place of everyone else—even bad, lying, thieving little boys like Hamid and the rest of the gang. All they had to do was say they were sorry and ask Jesus to forgive them.
    Then the nurse stopped talking and brought in two great bowls of steaming rice and handed around hunks of bread. The children divided up into two groups and huddled over their supper, scooping up the food at an amazing pace, then polishing the bowls with their dirty little fingers. No one spoke much until the last lick and crumb had vanished because they were racing each other to get the most. When every bit was gone, they sat back on their heels and questioned the nurse about the little girl whom they had found in the passage the night before.
    “She is still with me,” she said, smiling a little. “She is, at this moment,