“Elithe!” she called at last at the foot of the stairs. “Elithe!” but Elithe was wrapped in oblivion to everything around her, and it would take more than a call to waken her. “I b’lieve she’s asleep,” Miss Hansford said, going up the stairs and glancing first into the bath closet. Everything was right there. The bar of soap was in the saucer on the wooden chair and the towels on the rack. Turning next to the white room, she stood for a moment in the door which jutted back a little into the hall or entry so that she could not at once see the bed and the young girl sleeping there. She could only see the confusion, which filled her with dismay. Elithe was as orderly, and more so, perhaps, than most girls. _Slatting_ was not her custom, and she had meant to put everything away after finishing her toilet. But sleep had overtaken her, and the whole room was bearing frightful evidence against the Potter blood. Her trunk was open, with various articles in a huddle, as she had left them when hunting for her linen. Her best dress, her second best and her gingham were on exhibition; a part of the bathing suit hung over one side of the trunk and a white apron on the other. On the floor at intervals lay her traveling clothes, boots and stockings and skirts, which she had left where she dropped them. Miss Hansford stepped over some of them and kicked others aside as she advanced into the room with stern disapproval on her face. “I’ll give up if she hasn’t slatted in good earnest. Her mother all over!” she thought, just as her eye fell upon the figure by the bedside. Elithe’s head was on one side, disclosing a part of her face, which was very pale, except for a red spot on her cheek. Through the window a bar of sunshine fell across her hair like a halo bringing out its golden tints and reminding Miss Hansford of a picture she once saw of the Virgin when a girl of fifteen. “Fell asleep saying her prayers, poor, tired child!” Miss Hansford said to herself, all her discomposure at the _slatted_ room vanishing as she picked up the soiled articles and put them away. Then she awoke Elithe, who started to her feet suddenly, but sank back quickly upon the bed. She was not hungry, she said. She could not eat if she went down. All she wanted was to sleep, and her head fell heavily upon her breast. Miss Hansford told her of the strawberries and cream and the rolls and the custards, dwelling at length upon the latter and the cups they were baked in. Elithe could surely eat a custard if nothing else. “No, auntie, not even a custard to-night, if it were baked in a cup five hundred years old,” Elithe said. “I can’t eat anything. I’ve had too much already. That sandwich was dreadful.” A moment later she parted company with the stale sandwich eaten in Springfield and the lemonade taken on the boat. With her stomach thus relieved, she felt better, but begged so hard to be left alone that her aunt did not urge her further.