“Four-eighteen,” replied the man. “My word—a long time! But never mind, I’ll be there in time for his tea—bless ’im!” The porter did not know to whose tea she alluded, but did not stop to inquire. “He allers likes his tea with me,” continued the little woman, “and he shall have it to-night with a fresh egg and a little honey. Honey agrees with him wonderful. He’s a splendid child. I love ’im better than I loves Clary. Clary takes after her father. My word, how thin and ugly she have grown! I shouldn’t be surprised if she had caught the consumption same as her father died of.” Punctual to the moment the train steamed out of the station. Mrs. Ives settled herself comfortably in her corner, looked around her and chuckled. “I ha’ done it now,” she thought. “I’ll talk to the little chap to-night and I’ll take him back to-morrow. I’m sorry for the pretty young lady. It’ll go hard with her and her husband returning to poverty. Well, never mind, hardships must be borne once in a way, and poverty ain’t none so bad. I ha’ tasted riches, and I’d a sight sooner have poverty.” Mrs. Ives made a sniff of approval and flung down the window. “Sakes, this keen air is refreshing,” she said. “That house with its curtains was enough to stifle a body.” The train was punctual in arriving at Falmouth, but Mrs. Ives had still two miles to complete her journey. Her little cottage was situated in a village a mile outside the big town. As she walked she began to have a strange and almost painful longing to clasp the boy in her arms, to kiss his white forehead, to look into his deep and lovely eyes, to hear his shout of rapture when she told him that through no fault of his she had discovered his secret, and that in spite of Clary he was going home. “I’ll miss him,” she said to herself, “but any one can see that he frets a good bit—poor lamb! He won’t fret any longer now. Yes, I’ll miss him sore, but I’ll always feel deep down in my heart that I took him back to his own, and that I foiled Clary, who’s turned so monstrous wicked. It’s a terrible thing to think of one’s own darter coming so low, but I won’t be the one to connive at her wickedness.” Mrs. Ives’s little cottage was on the outskirts of the village. The lights were burning in the cottage windows as she walked down the street. No one noticed her as she went by. Had the village folk done so they might have had news. By and by she entered her own cottage. When she had gone away she had left a village girl in possession. The name of the girl was Mary Welsh. She was a round-headed, blue-eyed girl, with a flat face, and a keen, clever way about her. Mrs. Ives had given her directions with regard to little Piers. She was to play with him, but not to encourage him to talk about his fancies. He was to be out a good deal, for, Christmas as the season was, it was pleasant in the neighborhood of Falmouth, and not specially cold.