She was met on the fourth brood-comb by a rush of excited sisters all buzzing together.
“One at a time! Let me put down my load. Now, what is it, Sacharissa?” she said.
“Grey Sister—that fluffy one, I mean—she came and said we ought to be out in the sunshine gathering honey, because life was short. She said any old bee could attend to our babies, and some day old bees would. That isn't true, Melissa, is it? No old bees can take us away from our babies, can they?”
“Of course not. You feed the babies while your heads are soft. When your heads harden, you go on to field-work. Any one knows that.”
“We told her so! We told her so; but she only waved her feelers, and said we could all lay eggs like Queens if we chose. And I'm afraid lots of the weaker sisters believe her, and are trying to do it. So unsettling!”
Sacharissa sped to a sealed worker-cell whose lid pulsated, as the bee within began to cut its way out.
“Come along, precious!” she murmured, and thinned the frail top from the other side. A pale, damp, creased thing hoisted itself feebly on to the comb. Sacharissa's note changed at once. “No time to waste! Go up the frame and preen yourself!” she said. “Report for nursing-duty in my ward to-morrow evening at six. Stop a minute. What's the matter with your third right leg?”
The young bee held it out in silence—unmistakably a drone leg incapable of packing pollen.
“Thank you. You needn't report till the day after to-morrow.” Sacharissa turned to her companion. “That's the fifth oddity hatched in my ward since noon. I don't like it.”
“There's always a certain number of 'em,” said Melissa. “You can't stop a few working sisters from laying, now and then, when they overfeed themselves. They only raise dwarf drones.”