“She has gone away for the present, and your Cousin Dick and your friend Barbara have also gone away. They will come back by and by—by and by when you are really cured—but it takes a long time to cure a little chap who has been as ill as you have been. You would not like to sink down through the floor any more, would you?”
“Don’t you think you’re just a little bit of a humbug?” said Piers, gazing full into Mrs. Tarbot’s face. “Why do you talk in that way, just as if you had made it up, and why do you turn your eyes away? I don’t think mother can have gone away, and I’m sure Dick and Barbara must be here, because——”
“Is it likely I’d tell you a lie, Piers?”
“Well, of course I hope you wouldn’t, but I’m not sure. I suppose you wouldn’t, that is, if you are a good woman. Are you a good woman, nurse?”
“No, child, no. Heaven help me, no, I’m not.”
“Then perhaps you do tell lies. Of course, good women never do. God hates those who tell them, so you had better be careful. I never tell lies, and that’s why I keep my promise to you. I never tell grannie my secret.”
“If you had done so, Piers, you would have been an awfully wicked little boy. You must never, never tell Mrs. Ives the truth.”
“I won’t, because I promised, but why do you call her Mrs. Ives? She’s your mother—you do forget your fifth commandment. Well, now I’ll tell you something she says. Every morning the first thing when she gets up she says, ‘Piers, blood is thicker than water; but, Piers,’ she goes on, ‘there is some as has water in their veins instead of blood.’ I don’t know what she means by that, nurse, unless she’s talking about you; but you haven’t water in your veins instead of blood, have you?”
“No, dear, my mother could not have meant me. She’s an old woman, and she’s given to talking nonsense.”
“There you are, forgetting your fifth commandment again. I tell you I like her very much. She’s not quite as handsome as you, but I think perhaps she’s a better woman than you are. She never tells a lie.”