Part 43 (1/2)
”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.”