“No; for I quite love you. You are so changed. But when may I see Dick and Barbara again?” “I will tell you that by and by. If you are patient, you will see them all the sooner.” The boy lay back on his pillow with a sigh. “May I get up?” he asked after a moment. “I feel quite well.” “I will dress you myself, dear, and you shall come and sit with me in my sitting-room. But first I must go out.” “Where to?” “To the post-office to send a telegram.” “To Dick?” “No, dear; not to Dick, but somebody else.” “Who?” asked the child. “To my mother.” “Have you a mother? You look very old to have a mother.” “I have a mother, my dear, but she lives far away from here, in Cornwall.” “Cornwall—that’s in the very, very south of England, not far from Devonshire, where one of my places is. You know, nurse, I am an awfully rich boy, don’t you?” “Yes, little Piers.” “Why don’t you call me Sir Piers? It doesn’t seem respectful to call me little Piers.” “But I’d rather call you little Piers. I want you to forget the other name.” “Forget that I am Sir Piers Pelham! What do you mean?” “It is part of your cure. I hope to have you quite well before long, and when you are quite well and quite strong you shall be Sir Piers Pelham again, and you shall go back to Dick and Barbara and to your mother and Dr. Tarbot.” “Dr. Tarbot,” said the boy, his face flushing. “I hate him.” “That is unkind. He is your good doctor.” “He’s not good, and I hate him. Well, go and send off your telegram to your mother if you must, only it does seem queer that you should have one. What do you want to say to her?” “I want her to come here on a visit.” “Oh, I shall like that. It will be fun to see you greeting your mother. Will you kiss her much and will you obey her? Of course, you ought to obey your mother—it’s the fifth commandment. Well, go, nurse, now, and be quick back.” A few moments afterwards Nurse Ives went to the nearest telegraph office and sent off a message. The result of her message was that early on the following morning a little woman, with a wrinkled face and hands slightly distorted with rheumatism, arrived on the scene. “Well, now, Clara, what does this mean?” said the woman, “sending for me in such a precious hurry. What’s up, my girl? You look excited.” “I sent for you, mother, because I want you to take care of a little boy for me.” “A little boy! Good gracious! Not a patient?” “Yes, mother, a patient. I want you to look after him—that’s why I sent for you. I’ll tell you all particulars when you’ve had some breakfast.” CHAPTER XII. A CRAFTY OLD LADY. Mrs. Ives was like and yet unlike her daughter. She had the same sandy complexion, her face was slightly freckled and her lips very thin; she had shrewd, kindly eyes, however, and a brisk, active manner. She was about sixty years of age. Clara bustled about now to make her mother comfortable.