“Well, Clary, and how do you think he is?”
“Splendid, mother. You have taken excellent care of him, but you must go back with him to Cornwall to-morrow.”
“He don’t like it; he’s mad to come back to his own folk. Why should he stay away from them?”
“If he goes back you’ll lose your two pounds a week.”
“Aye, there’s summat in that,” said the old woman.
“I love my bit of money,” she continued after a pause. “I don’t believe in no bankses. I has my money in an old stocking at the back of the chimney. I has got a hundred and fifty pounds. When are we to go back, Clary?”
“By the first train to-morrow. It is sheer madness of you to stay here. If you do such a thing again I must take the boy away and put him in the care of some one else, but I would rather he were with you, mother.”
“You may as well leave him with me. I’ll look after him and tend him, and he loves me.”
“Well, mother, here’s five pounds over and above what I generally give. This will be plenty for your fare and the boy’s back to Cornwall, and I will send you three pounds a week in the future if you will look after him well.”
“Three pounds a week?” said the old woman. “That’s twelve pounds a month—a deal of money—a deal! I’ll look after him a bit longer then, Clary, but don’t try me too much, for I can’t abear his little cry of ‘I’ve a secret, but you mustn’t guess; and if you knew who my people were you’d take me home, wouldn’t you, grannie?’ That’s his little cry, and he’s such a grand, brave little chap. I don’t know what you’re after, but it’s evil, I make no doubt. You ain’t my sort—you don’t go to your chapel reg’lar, and you don’t say your prayers reg’lar. And duck green is your complexion, and your freckles is spreading. Now I’ll say good night, for if you ain’t tired I am.”