"I won't, then," said Ferdy.
"There isn't much more to tell," continued Chrissie. "I looked up, thinking I might see the swallows or martins, whichever they are, and I called out, 'Oh, won't you come down and speak to me? It would be so nice for you to tell Ferdy stories about your adventures, now that I can understand what you say.' And I felt so pleased. But I couldn't see them, and all I heard was twittering again,—twittering and chirping,—and then somehow I awoke, and there really was twittering and chirping to be heard, for my window was a little open. It was a funny dream, Ferdy, wasn't it?"
"Yes, very," said Ferdy. "I wish you'd go on with it to-night and make them tell you stories."
Chrissie shook her head.
"I don't think any one could dream regular stories like that," she said. "But it is rather nice to fancy that the swallows know about us, and that it's the same ones who come back every year. It makes them seem like friends."
"Yes," said Ferdy, "it is nice. I wonder," he went on, "what sort of things they meant me to look at out of the window. It did rather sound, Chrissie, as if they thought I'd have to stay a long time here in bed, didn't it?"
Chrissie laughed, though a little nervously.
"How funny you are, Ferdy," she said. "How could the swallows know, even if it had been real and not a dream? Still, we may a little fancy it is true. We could almost make a story of the window—of all the things to be seen, and all the people passing. When you are able to be on the sofa, Ferdy, it might stand so that you would see all ways—it would really be like a watch tower."
Ferdy raised himself a very little on one elbow.
"Yes," he said eagerly, "I see how you mean. I do hope I may soon be on the sofa. I think I would make a plan of looking out of one side part of the day, and then out of the other side. I don't think it would be so bad to be ill if you could make plans. It's the lying all day just the same that must get so dreadfully dull."