You owe this strange intelligence
Speak, I charge ye!—Shakspeare.
“Elfie! why, Elfie, wake up.”
It was the voice of Britomarte, speaking in a low but eager tone as she gently shook the girl to rouse her.
Elfie yawned, stretched her arms, and gazed around in perplexity.
“Elfie! what, Elfie! asleep on your post! In the army we—I mean they—shoot sentinels for such dereliction from duty,” said Miss Conyers.
“Ow—ow—ow!” gaped Elfie, “is he gone?”
“Gone! Who gone?”
“General Eastworth, or his fetch!”
“General Eastworth! You are dreaming, Elfie. Wake up! I wonder that you should have allowed yourself to go to sleep.”