“Yes,” replied Barbara, “the little boy died.” “A baby were he, love?” “Oh, no, not a baby. He was seven years old—such a pretty boy!” “To be sure now, that was great trouble. And so your husband came in for the property then?” “Yes.” “How long ago, may I ask?” “Two or three months ago. It all happened unexpectedly. The boy was never strong—he died of heart disease. By the way,” continued Barbara, looking full at the old woman, “you must have heard about it, for your daughter nursed him during his last illness.” “A mercy me!” said Mrs. Ives. “As if that makes any difference! Clary talk about her patients to her old mother! Not she. I knows nothing about it, dear, and I’d like well to hear the story. But your eyes are full of tears; you look quite sad.” “I always feel sad when I think of him—dear little Piers!” “To be sure, to be sure. What was it you called him, love?” “Piers.” “That’s an uncommon name.” “It is, but it has belonged to the family of the Pelhams for generations. I am sorry Dick is not Piers, although, of course, I like his own name.” “I am vastly interested by what you tells me, love. The child must have been a nice little gentleman.” “Yes; but I can’t talk of him any more. It makes me too sad. Come this way, Mrs. Ives.” Barbara entered the house and took the old woman in the direction of the housekeeper’s room. The housekeeper’s name was Mrs. Posset. She was very stout, and she always wore the richest of black silk dresses and the finest of real lace caps. When Barbara entered she rose and looked with anything but approval at Mrs. Ives. “Please, Mrs. Posset,” said Barbara in her kind voice, “will you give this old lady something to eat? She is tired and has come a long way.” “Eh, _dear_, what a beautiful dress!” cried Mrs. Ives, dropping a low curtsey to the housekeeper, who was much more stately in her manner than Barbara herself. A little flattery always mollified Mrs. Posset, and she told Barbara that she would do what was necessary. Accordingly she invited Mrs. Ives to seat herself, and ringing a bell, the still-room maid appeared. Directions were given to her, with the result that in about five minutes a trayful of appetizing viands was brought into the room. The tray was placed in front of Mrs. Ives, who drew off her crimson gloves, unfastened her black shawl, and prepared to enjoy herself. “Eh,” she said, looking up at Mrs. Posset presently, “it’s a mournful tale.” “What?” asked the housekeeper. “That about the little lad who died.” “I’d rather not talk of it,” said Mrs. Posset. As she spoke her face began to work—it got crimson, then her eyes filled with tears. She covered her face and sobbed audibly. “She do take it to heart. I can pump her a bit,” thought the old woman. After a moment she said— “You’re upset, ma’am, and I’m sorry.” “I am,” said Mrs. Posset. “I loved him as if he were my own. He was a dear little chap.”