“You’re wrong there,” said Clara. “I have not got a farthing for the boy. I’m keeping him away from danger, that’s what I’m doing.” “Away from danger? Is it likely any one would hurt a pretty lamb like that?” “There are always wolves in the world ready to eat up pretty lambs,” said Clara. “But now listen, mother; this air does not suit Piers, and I’m going to send him away. He shall go down to Cornwall with you. You’ll keep him in your own cottage, and say he’s a boy you’ve been given to nurse. He will spend the winter with you, and I’ll give you two pounds a week as long as you look after him, and don’t guess any more than you know at present.” “Two pounds a week!—A mercy me! how will you get the money, Clara?” “From my husband.” “To be sure. I forgot you was married. You never told me the name of your husband. Your name is no longer Ives.” “Not likely.” “What is your name?” Clara hesitated, then she said slowly, “Tarbot.” “Tarbot, Tarbot—it sounds like Turbot—you ain’t surely married to that doctor fellow?” “You must not talk of him in that strain. He’s one of the best doctors in London—one of the cleverest, I mean. Yes, I am his wife. I have a fine house and plenty of money, but I don’t want you to come to my house, and I don’t want the boy to come there. If either of you come to the house, or if ever you let out that I gave you the boy to take care of, mischief will come of it; black mischief mother, black mischief.” “Yes,” said the old woman. Her voice was cowed and she felt frightened. “Come over here to me, mother. I’ll whisper something to you.” “You give me the creeps,” began Mrs. Ives. “Come here, mother, come here.” The old woman was afraid to stir. Clara rose and went to her, she knelt by her side. “There are those who want to get rid of the child,” she said in a hoarse whisper, “but with you, mother, he is safe. Now you understand.” “Yes, I think I do,” said the old woman. She sat back in her chair. She was white and trembling. CHAPTER XV. DICK’S SECRET. Mrs. Pelham mourned for her boy in the deepest black. She gradually recovered her health, but her spirits were low, and she indulged in much weeping. She began to look pale and old, and her friends all pitied her sincerely. For the first fortnight after the unexpected death of the boy Mrs. Evershed did not dare to visit the unhappy widow. She felt that under such peculiar, such wonderful circumstances, she could scarcely command her own face. The event which was a terrible blow to Mrs. Pelham was life and the resurrection of all things bright and beautiful to Mrs. Evershed. Now, indeed, Dick Pelham was a son-in-law after her own heart. She did not dare to hurry on the wedding too soon, but at the same time she was glad to tell her friends that Barbara was engaged to the dear fellow quite a fortnight before his little cousin died.