“When does this train arrive at Falmouth, my good man?”
“Four-eighteen,” replied the man.
“My word—a long time! But never mind, I’ll be there in time for his tea—bless ’im!”
The porter did not know to whose tea she alluded, but did not stop to inquire.
“He allers likes his tea with me,” continued the little woman, “and he shall have it to-night with a fresh egg and a little honey. Honey agrees with him wonderful. He’s a splendid child. I love ’im better than I loves Clary. Clary takes after her father. My word, how thin and ugly she have grown! I shouldn’t be surprised if she had caught the consumption same as her father died of.”
Punctual to the moment the train steamed out of the station. Mrs. Ives settled herself comfortably in her corner, looked around her and chuckled.
“I ha’ done it now,” she thought. “I’ll talk to the little chap to-night and I’ll take him back to-morrow. I’m sorry for the pretty young lady. It’ll go hard with her and her husband returning to poverty. Well, never mind, hardships must be borne once in a way, and poverty ain’t none so bad. I ha’ tasted riches, and I’d a sight sooner have poverty.”
Mrs. Ives made a sniff of approval and flung down the window.
“Sakes, this keen air is refreshing,” she said. “That house with its curtains was enough to stifle a body.”
The train was punctual in arriving at Falmouth, but Mrs. Ives had still two miles to complete her journey. Her little cottage was situated in a village a mile outside the big town. As she walked she began to have a strange and almost painful longing to clasp the boy in her arms, to kiss his white forehead, to look into his deep and lovely eyes, to hear his shout of rapture when she told him that through no fault of his she had discovered his secret, and that in spite of Clary he was going home.