“Yes,” replied Barbara, “the little boy died.”
“A baby were he, love?”
“Oh, no, not a baby. He was seven years old—such a pretty boy!”
“To be sure now, that was great trouble. And so your husband came in for the property then?”
“Yes.”
“How long ago, may I ask?”
“Two or three months ago. It all happened unexpectedly. The boy was never strong—he died of heart disease. By the way,” continued Barbara, looking full at the old woman, “you must have heard about it, for your daughter nursed him during his last illness.”
“A mercy me!” said Mrs. Ives. “As if that makes any difference! Clary talk about her patients to her old mother! Not she. I knows nothing about it, dear, and I’d like well to hear the story. But your eyes are full of tears; you look quite sad.”
“I always feel sad when I think of him—dear little Piers!”
“To be sure, to be sure. What was it you called him, love?”