“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.