“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.”
She left the room, shutting the door noisily.
“She’s very cross with you,” said little Piers. “But she’s not cross with me, and I love her awfully.”
“I am glad of that, dear.”
“I went with grannie this morning to look at my real home,” continued Piers. “I didn’t tell her which house it was, but I stared at it, and p’r’aps she saw the direction my eyes were looking in. I did so long to run across and ring the bell and rush up to mother and hug her, but I didn’t because I had promised you. Honor bright, you know, honor bright.”
“Yes, honor bright, Piers,” said Mrs. Tarbot. Her brows were knit, and she was gazing anxiously across the little room. Her mind was full of perplexity and dread.
“I want to see mother so dreadfully,” continued the child. “I dream of her at night, and I want to see Dick. It’s strange they don’t any of them write. When may I go back to them, nurse?”