It seemed to grow red-hot to the very inside heart of
it--and then before the eight eyes of its friends it fell together,
a heap of white ashes, and the flames of the cedar pencils and the
sandal-wood box met and joined above it.
'Whatever have you done with the carpet?' asked mother next day.
'We gave it to some one who wanted it very much. The name began
with a P,' said Jane.
The others instantly hushed her.
'Oh, well, it wasn't worth twopence,' said mother.
'The person who began with P said we shouldn't lose by it,' Jane
went on before she could be stopped.
'I daresay!' said mother, laughing.
But that very night a great box came, addressed to the children by
all their names. Eliza never could remember the name of the
carrier who brought it. It wasn't Carter Paterson or the Parcels
Delivery.
It was instantly opened. It was a big wooden box, and it had to be
opened with a hammer and the kitchen poker; the long nails came
squeaking out, and boards scrunched as they were wrenched off.
Inside the box was soft paper, with beautiful Chinese patterns on
it--blue and green and red and violet. And under the paper--well,
almost everything lovely that you can think of. Everything of
reasonable size, I mean; for, of course, there were no motors or
flying machines or thoroughbred chargers.
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