"She's doing it
all."
"Ah, don't let your conscience reproach you later, but when
you've killed me, write me, at least, as one that loved her
fellow-worker."
Laying at every sob, the Wax-moth backed into a crowd of young
bees, and left Melissa bewildered and annoyed. So she lifted up
her little voice in the darkness and cried, "Stores!" till a gang
of cell-fillers hailed her, and she left her load with them.
"I'm afraid I foul-brooded you just now," said a voice over her
shoulder. "I'd been on the Gate for three hours, and one would
foul-brood the Queen herself after that. No offence meant."
"None taken," Melissa answered cheerily. "I shall be on Guard
myself, some day. What's next to do?"
"There's a rumour of Death's Head Moths about. Send a gang of
youngsters to the Gate, and tell them to narrow it in with a
couple of stout scrap-wax pillars. It'll make the Hive hot, but
we can't have Death's Headers in the middle of our honey-flow."
"My Only Wings! I should think not!" Melissa had all a sound
bee's hereditary hatred against the big, squeaking, feathery
Thief of the Hives.
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