But it is rather a quiet kind of being alive and awake, I think.

Something like Grandmamma, when she is very stiff on Sunday afternoon, and goes to sleep upright in a chair, and wakes up a little when her book drops.

But not alive and awake like Margery's black cat, which must have heard me open the side-door, and followed me without my seeing it.

It did frighten me, with jumping out of the bushes, and looking at me with yellow eyes! Then I saw another eye.

The eye of a moth, who was on one of the leaves.