‘The sorrows of youth soon appear but as dreams,’ it said. ‘Farewell, Robert of my heart. I have loved you well.’
The fire had burnt to a red glow. One by one the spices and sweet woods were laid on it. Some smelt nice and some—the caraway seeds and the Violettes de Parme sachet among them—smelt worse than you would think possible.
‘Farewell, farewell, farewell, farewell!’ said the Phoenix, in a far-away voice.
‘Oh, GOOD-BYE,’ said every one, and now all were in tears.
The bright bird fluttered seven times round the room and settled in the hot heart of the fire. The sweet gums and spices and woods flared and flickered around it, but its golden feathers did not burn. It seemed to grow red-hot to the very inside heart of it—and then before the eight eyes of its friends it fell together, a heap of white ashes, and the flames of the cedar pencils and the sandal-wood box met and joined above it.
‘Whatever have you done with the carpet?’ asked mother next day.
‘We gave it to some one who wanted it very much. The name began with a P,’ said Jane.
The others instantly hushed her.
‘Oh, well, it wasn’t worth twopence,’ said mother.
‘The person who began with P said we shouldn’t lose by it,’ Jane went on before she could be stopped.