“I’ll miss him,” she said to herself, “but any one can see that he frets a good bit—poor lamb! He won’t fret any longer now. Yes, I’ll miss him sore, but I’ll always feel deep down in my heart that I took him back to his own, and that I foiled Clary, who’s turned so monstrous wicked. It’s a terrible thing to think of one’s own darter coming so low, but I won’t be the one to connive at her wickedness.”
Mrs. Ives’s little cottage was on the outskirts of the village. The lights were burning in the cottage windows as she walked down the street. No one noticed her as she went by. Had the village folk done so they might have had news.
By and by she entered her own cottage. When she had gone away she had left a village girl in possession. The name of the girl was Mary Welsh. She was a round-headed, blue-eyed girl, with a flat face, and a keen, clever way about her. Mrs. Ives had given her directions with regard to little Piers. She was to play with him, but not to encourage him to talk about his fancies. He was to be out a good deal, for, Christmas as the season was, it was pleasant in the neighborhood of Falmouth, and not specially cold.
“Ain’t they got no fire and no light? How mortal dull for the little chap!” she said to herself as she noticed that the house was in darkness. But the next moment it occurred to her that Mary Welsh might have taken the boy to have tea with her own people. Such a proceeding would be very wrong on the part of Mary, but, nevertheless, she might have committed the crime.
“Where are you, little chap?” called out Mrs. Ives as she lifted the latch. There was not a sound or a movement—the place was empty. Mrs. Ives knew where the matches were kept. She found the box, struck a match and lit a candle. The fire was out, the place was in confusion. A telegram lay on the table.
“From Clary, but I ain’t a-going to mind her,” said Mrs. Ives. She went into the little bedroom; both the beds were in order, but there was not a sight of the child anywhere.
“Dear, dear, and I’m fagged out. Yes, I’m beginning to feel the journey now,” she said to herself; “but there’s no help for it. I must go off to Mary’s. Now what does this mean?”
There was a sound of footsteps running quickly. The next moment the house door was flung open and Mary rushed into the room. The moment she saw Mrs. Ives she fell on her knees.
“It weren’t my fault, and don’t you go a-blaming me,” she called out.
“What do you mean?” said Mrs. Ives. “Get up and speak plain.”