To which Tom only answered in a jaunty tone, throwing his penknife out of his pocket.
"Here's my knife to bury your roots,
Lock the greenhouse, and wipe your boots."
Ethel's mouth gave a little twitch; but she would not laugh when Tom made fun of her poetry.
She went into the greenhouse, carrying a piece of black stuff and a pair of scissors, the penknife, and her verses printed in violet.
Then she dug a hole in the earthen floor, under the greenhouse shelf, in a warm corner near the pipes. Next she dug her begonia root out of the pot, popped it into the hole, and covered it up, and left a bit of stick standing upright, holding in a notch the wonderful epitaph.
Tom found her there, drying and smearing her face with an earthy corner of her pinafore. Tom had Kafoozalum peeping out from under his jacket-front; but Ethel sobbed afresh at the sight of the red bow with the kitten behind it.
"Come and take care of my geraniums with me, Ethel," said Tom.
"Oh! boo-hoo-no-no! You are very unkind."
"Why, what have I done? I didn't roll on my head in the begonia pot, did I, pussy?"
"Oh! boo-hoo—go 'way!"