He turned himself on one side and then on the other, and, as nothing
would do, he raised himself and sat upright to wait till sleep might
choose to come. But sleep would not come at all; and the only
wakeful eyes in the whole wood were the Child's. For the harebells
had rung themselves weary, and the fire-flies had flown about till
they were tired, and even the dragon-fly, who would fain have kept
watch in front of the cave, had dropped sound asleep.

The wood grew stiller and stiller; here and there fell a dry leaf
which had been driven from its old dwelling place by a fresh one;
here and there a young bird gave a soft chirp when its mother
squeezed it in the nest; and from time to time a gnat hummed for a
minute or two in the curtain, till a spider crept on tip-toe along
its web, and gave him such a gripe in the wind-pipe as soon spoiled
his trumpeting.

And the deeper the silence became, the more intently did the Child
listen, and at last the slightest sound thrilled him from head to
foot. At length, all was still as death in the wood; and the world
seemed as if it never would wake again. The Child bent forward to
see whether it were as dark abroad as in the cave, but he saw
nothing save the pitch-dark night, who had wrapped everything in her
thick veil. Yet as he looked upwards his eyes met the friendly
glance of two or three stars, and this was a most joyful surprise to
him, for he felt himself no longer so entirely alone. The stars
were, indeed, far, far away, but yet he knew them, and they knew
him; for they looked into his eyes.

The Child's whole soul was fixed in his gaze; and it seemed to him