"I don't care," said Tristram affably.
"P'r'aps you don't know what 'Don't Care' came to?"
"No, I don't."
"Well, he came to--a place. It was a good deal deeper down than this
hole I'm digging."
"What's the hole for?"
"My doll, here. I've got to put away childish things; so I'm going
to cover her right up and never see her face again. Oh! oh!"
She began to sob as if her heart would break.
"I wouldn't cry if I were you. I didn't cry just now when I tumbled
off the flower-pot."
"You don't know what it is to be a mother."
"No, but I can dig ever so much better than you. Look here.
I've got a spade of my own, and I'll show you how to dig properly, if
you like."
He ran off and returned with it in less than a minute. In another
minute they were engrossed in the burial rites, the girl still
playing at tragedy, but enjoying herself immensely.
"We must read something over the remains," she announced.
"Why?"
"Because it's always done, unless the dead person is buried with a
stake through his inside."
"Then we'd better take her out again and put a stake through her;
because I can't read."
"Haven't you begun to learn yet?"
"No."
"Well," said Sophia, picking up the Euclid, "you can hold a corner of
the book and listen to what I read, and perhaps you can repeat some
of it after me, you contemptible boy.
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