I have only got two moths to-
night - one pretty one with white wings with little red spots on,
like an old-fashioned petticoat such as an early Victorian-age lady
would have worn - the other a sweet thing in silver.
(Later, i.e., 2.15 A.M.). I have been asleep against that
abominable vegetable of a tree. It had its trunk covered with a
soft cushion of moss, and pretended to be a comfort - a right angle
to lean against, and a softly padded protection to the spine from
wind, and all that sort of thing; whereas the whole mortal time it
was nothing in this wretched world but a water-pipe, to conduct an
extra supply of water down my back. The water has simply streamed
down it, and formed a nice little pool in a rocky hollow where I
keep my feet, and I am chilled to the innermost bone, so have to
scramble up and drag my box to the side of Kefalla and Xenia's fire,
feeling sure I have contracted a fatal chill this time. I scrape
the ashes out of the fire into a heap, and put my sodden boots into
them, and they hiss merrily, and I resolve not to go to sleep again.
5 A.M. - Have been to sleep twice, and have fallen off my box bodily
into the fire in my wet blankets, and should for sure have put it
out like a bucket of cold water had not Xenia and Kefalla been
roused up by the smother I occasioned and rescued me - or the fire.
It is not raining now, but it is bitter cold and Cook is getting my
tea.
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