As Clara spoke she opened the door which divided the bedroom from the little sitting-room and brought Sir Piers into the sitting-room. The child came forward with his usual manly grace. He flung back his handsome little head and stared into the eyes of the old lady.
“My word! what a fine little fellow!” she cried. “Come and kiss me, my little lad.”
The boy held up his coral lips.
“I like you,” he said softly. “Are you nurse’s mother?”
“Yes, dear.”
The old lady made room for Piers on her lap.
“What a very wrinkled face you have,” he said.
“No more wrinkles than I ought to have,” was the reply. “It’s becoming to have wrinkles when you’re turning a bit aged. It’s like the russet apple when it’s ripe—I’m ripe, and that’s why the wrinkles is there.”
“Ripe,” said little Piers. He touched the old cheek with his tiny finger. “I like you,” he repeated after a pause. “I’m glad I made that promise.”
“What promise, little un?”