“I’m bringing a friend of mine to see the little gentleman,” she said. The woman made no response, and Clara and Mrs. Ives went up-stairs together. “You should not speak of me as a friend of yours, mother,” said Clara in a whisper as they were going up. “And why not? If my own darter ain’t a friend, I don’t know who is. I were very near saying, I ha’ brought my darter to see the little boy, but out of respect for your ladyship I said friend. Now here we be.” They paused on the third landing, and Mrs. Ives opened the door and went in. Clara followed her. The room was small and shabby. “You ought not to have taken the boy to a place of this sort,” said Mrs. Tarbot. “Why not? You never told me that he come of gentle folk.” “You might have guessed that for yourself. The child must be well taken care of. He can’t stay here.” “That’s for you to settle, Clary. In London the child wishes to be, and in London he must be.” “Mother, when you talk like that you aggravate me past bearing.” Mrs. Ives walked across the sitting-room and threw open the door of the bedroom. “Don’t you go and wake him,” she said. “He’s strong now—brown as a nut and as handsome as a picture. Come along, we’ll have a look at him.” Mrs. Ives lit a candle and they went into the bedroom. The boy was lying on a small bed which had been made up in a corner of the room. Clara bent over him. The child in his sleep looked like an angel. Once he stirred, and when he did so that thing within her which no one else had ever brought to life began to make itself apparent. Her feeling for Tarbot was passion, but her feeling for the boy was love, pure and holy. “Hush, hush! don’t wake him,” she said; but her words came too late. The old woman made a hasty movement, knocking over a little table as she did so. The boy started in his sleep, opened his eyes and looked full at Clara. “I am so glad you have come back again,” he cried. The next instant his soft arms were round her neck, and she felt his kisses on her thin cheek. “I’m so glad you have come back,” he repeated, “and I have kept it—I have really. It’s wonderful, isn’t it?” “Dear little Piers,” said Clara. “Are you going to stay with me? I’d like it awfully; I have a lot of things I want to talk to you about. You know all my secrets, and it would be a real comfort to talk to you. Please, grannie (nurse, I always call your mother ‘grannie’), please, grannie, go out of the room. I want to say things to my nurse—oh, I forgot, you don’t want me to call you ‘nurse’ any more, do you?” “I don’t mind, Piers; you may call me ‘nurse’ if you like. I’ll stay with you for a little. Mother, you can go into the sitting-room.” “Oh, can I? Seems to me I’m hustled about to please everybody but myself,” said the old woman. “All right, I’ll go. You don’t mind if I leave the door ajar, do you?” “Please shut it, mother, and don’t bother.” “Oh, I’m a bother, am I? Your temper gets worse and worse, Clara. But I’m going, I’m going.”