“No, Miss,” responded the woman, still holding the door, without giving any further invitation to enter.
But Brenda was not to be turned from her purpose.
“Well, I have a picture,—did your little boy die?”
“Yes, Miss,” answered the woman; “he has been dead six weeks. I have only the baby.”
The tone in which she spoke was Irish rather than Portuguese.
“Well, could we come in? I have something to show you.”
“Why, yes,” and pushing the front door open, she showed them into a room at the right of the hall. It was furnished like a kitchen, but a crib stood in one corner, in which a baby was sleeping. Mrs. Silva hastened into the bedroom, which led from the kitchen, and brought out two chairs.
When they were all seated, Brenda took from her pocket a card-case. In this she had carried the envelope with the photographs. As she handed one to Mrs. Silva, a smile at first spread over her face. Then she reddened, and a tear fell with a splash on the picture. It was the photograph of father and child.
“Oh, the poor little thing!” she exclaimed; “it’s me heart that’s breaking for him every day,” and she threw her apron over her head.
Now, at the first sight of the neat, pretty woman and the sleeping baby, Brenda’s desire for vengeance had begun to weaken.
If she had had a policeman within call, and if Miguel
