“Piers.”
“That’s an uncommon name.”
“It is, but it has belonged to the family of the Pelhams for generations. I am sorry Dick is not Piers, although, of course, I like his own name.”
“I am vastly interested by what you tells me, love. The child must have been a nice little gentleman.”
“Yes; but I can’t talk of him any more. It makes me too sad. Come this way, Mrs. Ives.”
Barbara entered the house and took the old woman in the direction of the housekeeper’s room. The housekeeper’s name was Mrs. Posset. She was very stout, and she always wore the richest of black silk dresses and the finest of real lace caps. When Barbara entered she rose and looked with anything but approval at Mrs. Ives.
“Please, Mrs. Posset,” said Barbara in her kind voice, “will you give this old lady something to eat? She is tired and has come a long way.”
“Eh, dear, what a beautiful dress!” cried Mrs. Ives, dropping a low curtsey to the housekeeper, who was much more stately in her manner than Barbara herself.
A little flattery always mollified Mrs. Posset, and she told Barbara that she would do what was necessary. Accordingly she invited Mrs. Ives to seat herself, and ringing a bell, the still-room maid appeared. Directions were given to her, with the result that in about five minutes a trayful of appetizing viands was brought into the room. The tray was placed in front of Mrs. Ives, who drew off her crimson gloves, unfastened her black shawl, and prepared to enjoy herself.
“Eh,” she said, looking up at Mrs. Posset presently, “it’s a mournful tale.”