“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——”
“Oh, yes, I kept the secret,” he said, nodding to her, an expression of delight visiting his small mouth. “And I’m just going to tell how I managed. It was such fun. I told your mother—she’s a dear old thing, but she’s not handsome like you, nor is she a lady—I told her each morning at breakfast that I had a great secret, and then I got her to guess what it was.”
“Good Heavens!” said Clara.