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 wet fingers, and it was a bowl—at least they said it was. When we'd made a lot of things we set them in the sun to dry, and then it seemed a pity not to do the thing thoroughly. So we made a bonfire, and when it had burned down we put our pots on the soft, white, hot ashes among the little red sparks, and kicked the ashes over them and heaped more fuel over the top. It was a fine fire.

Then tea-time seemed as if it ought to be near, and we decided to come back next day and get our pots.

As we went home across the fields Dicky looked back and said:

"The bonfire's going pretty strong."

We looked. It was. Great flames were rising to heaven against the evening sky. And we had left it a smouldering, flat heap.

"The clay must have caught alight," H. O. said. "Perhaps it's the kind that burns. I know I've heard of fire-clay. And there's another sort you can eat."

"Oh, shut up!" Dicky said, with anxious scorn.

With one accord we turned back. We all felt the feeling—the one that means something fatal being up and it being your fault.

"Perhaps," Alice said, "a beautiful young lady in a muslin dress was passing by, and a spark flew on to her, and now she is rolling in agony enveloped in flames."

We could not see the fire now, because of the corner of the wood, but we hoped Alice was mistaken.