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.”