Miguel Silva had been seen on the North Shore, whereas he had been thought to have run away to South America.
“Why, he says that he lives at Salem. That’s where his little boy died,” said Brenda.
“His little boy dead?” asked Angelina. “Oh, mother, you hear that; little Miguel’s dead. Miss Barlow says so.”
“Oh, the poor little thing!” exclaimed Mrs. Rosa. “He was a nice little boy, though I never saw him since he was a baby. Poor Maria!” and for a moment her hatred of Miguel seemed to be lost in pity for his wife, who, she said, loved the little boy so much.
The disclosure brought about by the photographs overshadowed all other subjects of conversation between the two cousins and the Rosa family. They looked, to be sure, at the garden, and praised the work which each of the children had done. They ate the blackberries and biscuit which Angelina had so thoughtfully prepared for them. But Mrs. Rosa could talk of nothing except Miguel Silva, and Brenda promised to see if something could not be done to make him give up the money; and Angelina made many suggestions, even to the extent of going to Salem to testify against Miguel.
“I think that she’d like to be in a lawsuit,” whispered Julia to Brenda. “I don’t believe she’d care whether she was witness or prisoner, as long as she could be a centre of observation.”
“We ’ll surely let you know if anything can be done,” said Julia to Mrs. Rosa, as they said good-bye. “But I
