“We won’t play with them again,” they said sadly.
“Give them to me, and I will throw them away,” the mother said.
But the two shrank from that—those bits of wood had dwelt in their pockets, shared their thoughts, their life, for over a year.
“Oh, please,” they said, “please let us do it ourselves, mama.”
An hour later they were disposing of them with unhappy eyes. [They had buried] all but two in a matchbox with cotton-wool, the grave being at the foot of a favourite tree. But Muriel and Sir Guy Redcliffe had still to be disposed of.
[180]
]“Let’s leave them exposed to the world,” said Phyl; “if we bury them, they’re dead; they may as well have some more adventures.”
Away down the road was a railway-bridge with ironwork pillars at either end, rather elaborately wrought. Sir Guy was placed in one deep niche, and Muriel, attired in clinging white muslin, in another.
[They buried them in a matchbox with cotton-wool.]
For very long after this, whenever their walks took them past the bridge, Phyl and Dolly always walked that particular side of the road and peeped into the niches.