"I shall stay here all night," she thought, "and all to-morrow, and to-morrow night. And then"—a yawn—"pretty soon I shall be dead, I suppose, and they'll be—sorry"—another yawn—"and—"
Elly was asleep.
When she woke, the bright noon sunshine had given place to a dusky light, which made the syringa recess very dark. The robins had discovered her whereabouts, and, hopping nearer and nearer, had perched upon a branch close to her feet, and were talking about her. She was dimly conscious of their voices, but had no idea what they were saying.
"Why did it come here, any way?" asked Mrs. Robin. "A great heavy thing like that in our bush!"
"I don't know, I'm sure," replied Mr. Robin. "It makes a strange noise, but it keeps its eyes shut while it makes it."
"These great creatures are so queer!" pursued Mrs. Robin. "There,—it's beginning to move! I wish it would go away. I don't like its being so near the children. They might see it and be frightened."
The two birds flitted hastily off as Elly stretched herself and rubbed her eyes.
A very uncomfortable gnawing sensation began to make itself evident. It wasn't exactly pain, but Elly felt that it might easily become so. She remembered now that she fled away from the table, leaving her breakfast only half finished, yesterday morning,—was it yesterday, or was it the day before that? It felt like a long while ago.
The sensation increased.
"Dear me!" thought Elly, "the story-books never said that starving to death felt so. I don't like it a bit!"