“I feel so well and jolly,” said the child. “When may I go home?”
“Not for a bit yet. You would be as bad as ever if you did—you’d have that sinking feeling you spoke to me about.”
The child shuddered and began to tremble visibly.
“You’re not going back at present, darling. You don’t mind staying in this cosy little house with me, do you?”
“It’s like a doll’s house,” said the child; “and your mother must be the head doll. What fun! I’m one of the little ones and you’re another doll.”
“Now, come here, Piers, and stand by me, and let me say something. I believe you are a brave boy and that you wouldn’t tell a lie?”
“Of course I wouldn’t. I’m quite an important person, you know. Do you think great men such as I shall be tell lies?”
“I don’t believe you could tell a lie, Piers. Now, I want you to promise me something; I am sure when you promise you will keep your word. I don’t want my mother to know that you are Sir Piers Pelham.”
“Why?”
“I cannot tell you why. Sometime she may know, but not yet. All you have to say is that you are Piers, little Piers, my patient. You are not to tell her what your surname is, nor anything about the grand house you used to live in, nor about your mother, nor Dick, nor Barbara. Just say you are my little patient and that you love me—don’t say anything else.”