As Clare came down the next morning but one, there was the child again on the dark narrow stair. She had no doll. Her hands lay folded in her lap. She sat on the same step, the very image of child-patience. As he approached she did not move. I believe she held solemn revel of expectation. He laid his hand on the whitey-brown hair smoothed flat on her head with a brush dipped in water. Not much dressing was wasted on Ann—common little name!

She rose, turned to him, and again laid her arms about his neck. No kiss followed: she had not been taught to kiss.

“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.”

“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.

“I wish I could stay with you all day!” he said. “But your papa wants me in the bank. I must go.”

Clare had not had a good sight of the child, and was at a loss to think what must be her age. Her language, both in form and utterance, was partly precise and grown-up, and partly childish; but her wisdom was child-like—and that is the opposite both of precise and childish. It was the wisdom that comes of unity between thought and action.

“Is there anything I can do for you before I go—for I must go?” said Clare.

“Who says must to you? Nurse says must to me.”

“Your papa says must to me.”

“If you didn't say yes when papa said must, what would come next?”

“He would say, 'Go out of my house, and never come in again.'”

“And would you do it?”

“I must: the house is his, not mine.”

“If I didn't say yes when papa said must, what would happen?”

“He would try to make you say it.”

“And if I wouldn't, would he say, 'Go out of my house and never come in again'?”

“No; you are his little girl!”

“Then I think he shouldn't say it to you.—What is your name?”

“Clare.”

“Then, Clare, if my papa sends you out of his house, I will go with you.—You wouldn't turn me out, would you, when I was a little naughty?”

“No; neither would your papa.”

“If he turned you out, it would be all the same. Where you go, I will go. I must, you know! Would you mind if he said 'Go away'?”

“I should be very sorry to leave you.”

“Yes, but that's not going to be! Why do you stay with papa? Were you in the house always—ever so long before I saw you?”

“No; a very little while only.”

“Did you come in from the street?”

“Yes; I came in from the street. Your papa pays me to work for him.”

“And if you wouldn't?”

“Then I should have no money, and nothing to eat, and nowhere to sleep at night.”

“Would that make you uncomfable?”

“It would make me die.”

“Have you a papa?”

“Yes, but he's far away.”

“You could go to him, couldn't you?”

“One day I shall.”

“Why don't you go now, and take me?”

“Because he died.”

“What's died?”

“Went away out of sight, where we can't go to look for him till we go out of sight too.”

“When will that be?”

“I don't know.”

“Does anybody know?”

“Nobody.”

“Then perhaps you will never go?”

“We must go; it's only that nobody knows when.”

“I think the when that nobody knows, mayn't never come.—Is that why you have to work?”

“Everybody has to work one way or another.”

“I haven't to work!”

“If you don't work when you're old enough, you'll be miserable.”

“You're not old enough.”

“Oh, yes, indeed I am! I've been working a long time now.”

“Where? Not for papa?”

“No; not for papa.”

“Why not? Why didn't you come sooner? Why didn't you come much sooner—ever so much sooner? Why did you make me wait for you all the time?”

“Nobody ever told me you were waiting.”

“Nobody ever told me you were coming, but I knew.”

“You had to wait for me, and you knew. I had to wait for you, and I didn't know! When we have time, I will tell you all about myself, and how I've been waiting too.”

“Waiting for me?”

“No.”

“Who for?”

“For my father and mother—and somebody else, I think.”

“That's me.”

“No; I'm waiting yet. I didn't know I was coming to you till I came, and there you were!”

The child was silent for a moment. Then she said thoughtfully,

“You will tell me all about yourself! That will be nice!—Can you tell stories?” she added. “—Of course you can! You can do everything!”

“Oh, no, I can't!”

“Can't you?”

“No; I can do some things—not many. I can love you, little one!—Now I must go, or I shall be late, and nobody ever ought to be late.”

“Go then. I will go to my nursery and wait again.”

She went down the stair without once looking behind her. Clare followed. On the next floor she went one way to her nursery, and he another to the back-stairs.

One of the causes and signs of Clare's manliness was, that he never aimed at being a man. Many men continue childish because they are always trying to act like men, instead of simply trying to do right. Such never develop true manliness, Clare's manhood stole upon him unawares. That which at once made him a man and kept him a child, was, that he had no regard for anything but what was real, that is, true.

All the day the thought kept coming, what could he do for the little girl Perhaps what stirred his feeling for her most, was a suspicion that she was neglected. But the careless treatment of a nurse was better for her than would have been the capricious blandishments and neglects of a mother like Mrs. Shotover. Clare, however, knew nothing yet about Ann's mother. He knew only, by the solemnly still ways of the child, that she must be much left to her own resources, and was wonderfully developed in consequence—whether healthily or not, he could not yet tell. The practical question was—how to contrive to be her occasional companion; how to offer to serve her.

After much thinking, he concluded that he must wait: opportunity might suggest mode; and he would rather find than make opportunity!