A few moments afterwards Nurse Ives went to the nearest telegraph office and sent off a message. The result of her message was that early on the following morning a little woman, with a wrinkled face and hands slightly distorted with rheumatism, arrived on the scene.
“Well, now, Clara, what does this mean?” said the woman, “sending for me in such a precious hurry. What’s up, my girl? You look excited.”
“I sent for you, mother, because I want you to take care of a little boy for me.”
“A little boy! Good gracious! Not a patient?”
“Yes, mother, a patient. I want you to look after him—that’s why I sent for you. I’ll tell you all particulars when you’ve had some breakfast.”
CHAPTER XII.
A CRAFTY OLD LADY.
Mrs. Ives was like and yet unlike her daughter. She had the same sandy complexion, her face was slightly freckled and her lips very thin; she had shrewd, kindly eyes, however, and a brisk, active manner. She was about sixty years of age. Clara bustled about now to make her mother comfortable.
“You sit just here,” she said, pushing the old lady into the only arm-chair which the little room contained. “After you have had a good breakfast you shall lie down for a bit. There’s a great deal to be done, and I have much to tell you.”
“Well, tell it and be quick, Clara. You always were a queer one, and you look changed—you’ve got so smart. Why are you wearing that pretty dress? I thought you always wore your nurse’s livery.”
“I am not going to be a nurse any more, mother.”