“Oh, I can’t tell you. She’ll be angry.”
“Who, dear?”
“She.”
“Do you mean my darter—Mrs. Tarbot?”
“I do, grannie.”
“Well, whether she’s angry or whether she’s not,” said Mrs. Ives, “I went sure enough. You sit there on the bed and I’ll tell you a bit of a story. I went to a beautiful place.”
“Did you?” said the boy. He was trembling and the color was coming and going in his face. One moment his cheeks were brilliantly red, the next white. His little hands shook, he locked one inside the other to keep them still.
“A real beautiful place,” continued Mrs. Ives. “I won’t name no names, for names is worriting to the young, but I went there and saw a very lovely young lady.”
“A lovely young lady,” repeated little Piers. “I like lovely ladies. Was she more beautiful than your daughter, grannie?”
“My darter and she ain’t in the same runnin’. You know how freckled my poor Clary is, but there weren’t a freckle on her face, bless her, and her eyes were as brown as hazel nuts and wide open, and with a sparkle in the middle of ’em.”