She was dressed from head to foot in black, for she had discovered that no other color suited her so well, no other style of dress brought out the best points in her figure or made the most of that dead-white complexion and that brilliant red-gold hair. She knocked at the door behind which she had so often sat and waited and longed for Tarbot. Now she was his wife, his lawful wedded wife. She had taken possession of his house, of his riches—his position in society was hers, his name was hers. She possessed all of him except the part she most longed to secure—the man’s heart. Could she ever have that? She felt that it was beyond her purchase. She hated and she loved him for what he withheld: she hated him to the point of extreme pain, she loved him to the point of madness. Mrs. Ives was in, and so was little Piers. Mrs. Ives started back when she saw Clara and began to say that her daughter was out. “Nonsense, mother; don’t talk folly,” said Clara. “Don’t you know me?” She flung back her veil. “A mercy me! Whoever would suppose that it was you, Clara,” said the old woman. “Why, you _are_ fine. Fine feathers make fine birds. Piers, here’s your nurse come back.” “I’m not Piers’s nurse any more. How are you, Piers, all the same?” said Clara. She now entered the room, shut the door behind her and turned to face her mother and the boy. After one admiring glance, Piers ran and clasped his arms round her neck. “I always said you were a very handsome woman,” he cried. “You look awfully fine now you wear black. Black is the proper color for a lady to wear, and you’re a lady now, aren’t you?” “I hope so, Piers.” “A mercy me!” said the old woman again. She still stood in the background. From time to time she dropped a sort of involuntary curtsey. “Are you sure it’s you, Clara?” she said at last, coming to the light. “Stare at me as long as you like, mother. When you have quite done, I’ll sit down. I have a good deal to say.” “May I sit on your knee?” asked the boy. “You may,” said Clara. She placed herself in the rocking-chair. The boy scrambled on to her knee. “I’m quite well again,” he said in a low, excited voice, “and I’ve kept my promise, but it was awfully hard. Do you know how I managed?” Clara nodded but did not speak. She was looking at the child with a hungry expression in her eyes. There was a wonderful drawing in her heart towards him. She felt that here was something more valuable than her grand house, her fine dress, her large establishment. She looked into the boy’s velvety eyes, then suddenly clasped him to her heart and pressed her lips to his. “But for me, little Piers, but for me,” she said with a sort of strangled sob. “Why do you talk in such a queer way?” he asked. “Are you frightened about anything? Are you worried?” “No, no, I am only glad, Piers. Don’t ask me any more. So you kept——”