As Clare came down the next morning but one, there was the child again on the dark narrow stair. She had no doll. Her hands lay folded in her lap. She sat on the same step, the very image of child-patience. As he approached she did not move. I believe she held solemn revel of expectation. He laid his hand on the whitey-brown hair smoothed flat on her head with a brush dipped in water. Not much dressing was wasted on Ann--common little name! She rose, turned to him, and again laid her arms about his neck. No kiss followed: she had not been taught to kiss. “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.”