"Where's dolly?" asked Clare.

"Nowhere. Buried," answered the child.

"Where did you bury her? In the garden?"

"No. The garden wouldn't be nowhere!"

"Where, then?"

"Nowhere. I threw her out of the window."

"Into the street?"

"Yes. She did fell on a horse's back, and he jumped. I was sorry."

"It didn't hurt him. I hope it didn't hurt dolly!"

The moment he said it, Clare's heart reproached him: he was not talking true! he was not talking out of his real heart to the child!

Almost with indignation she answered:--

"_Things_ don't be hurt! Dolly was a thing! She's _no_ thing now!"

"Why?"

"Because she fell under the horse, and was seen no more."

"Is she old enough," thought Clare, "to read the Pilgrim's Progress?"

"Will you tell me, please," he said, "_when_ a thing is only a thing?"

"When it won't mind what you do or say to it."

"And when is a thing no thing any more?"

"When you never think of it again."

"Is a fly a thing?"

"I _could_ make a fly mind, only it would hurt it!"

"Of course we wouldn't do that!"

"No; we don't want to make a fly mind. It's not one of our creatures."

Clare thought that was far enough in metaphysics for one morning.

"I waited for you yesterday," he said, "but you didn't come!"

"Dolly didn't like to be buried. I mean, I didn't like burying dolly. I cried and wouldn't come."

"Then why did you bury dolly?"

"She _had_ to be buried. I told you she couldn't _be_ anybody! So I _made_ her be buried."

"I see! I quite understand.--But what have you to amuse yourself with now?"

"I don't want to be mused now. You's come! I'm growed up!"

"Yes, of course!" answered Clare; but he was puzzled what to say next.

What could he do for her? Glad would he have been to take her down to the sea, or to the docks, or into the country somewhere, till dinner-time, and then after dinner take her out again! But there was his work--ugly, stupid work that had to be done, as dolly _had_ to be buried! Alas for the child who has discarded her toys, and is suddenly growed up! What is she to do with herself? Clare's coming had caused the loss of Ann's former interests: he felt bound to make up to her for that loss. But how? It was a serious question, and not being his own master, he could not in a moment answer it.

"I wish I could stay with you all day!" he said. "But your papa wants me in the bank. I must go."

Clare had not had a good sight of the child, and was at a loss to think what must be her age. Her language, both in form and utterance, was partly precise and _grown-up_, and partly childish; but her wisdom was child-like--and that is the opposite both of precise and childish. It was the wisdom that comes of unity between thought and action.

"Is there anything I can do for you before I go--for I must go?" said Clare.

"Who says _must_ to you? Nurse says _must_ to me."

"Your papa says _must_ to me."

"If you didn't say _yes_ when papa said _must_, what would come next?"

"He would say, 'Go out of my house, and never come in again.'"

"And would you do it?"

"I must: the house is his, not mine."

"If I didn't say _yes_ when papa said _must_, what would happen?"

"He would try to make you say it."

"And if I wouldn't, would he say, 'Go out of my house and never come in again'?"

"No; you are his little girl!"

"Then I think he shouldn't say it to you.--What is your name?"

"Clare."

"Then, Clare, if my papa sends you out of his house, I will go with you.--You wouldn't turn me out, would you, when I was a _little_ naughty?"

"No; neither would your papa."

"If he turned you out, it would be all the same. Where you go, I will go. I must, you know! Would you mind if he said 'Go away'?"