“You little pig!” laughed Mrs. Comstock.  “Any one would think you would be satisfied with having a splinter new mother, without setting up a kick on her looks, first thing.  Greedy!”

“That is a good word,” said Elnora.  “I admit the charge.  I am greedy over every wasted year.  I want you young, lovely, suitably dressed and enjoying life like the other girls’ mothers.”

Mrs. Comstock laughed softly as she pushed back her sunbonnet so that shrubs and bushes beside the way could be scanned closely.  Elnora walked ahead with a case over her shoulder, a net in her hand.  Her head was bare, the rolling collar of her lavender gingham dress was cut in a V at the throat, the sleeves only reached the elbows.  Every few steps she paused and examined the shrubbery carefully, while Mrs. Comstock was watching until her eyes ached, but there were no dandelions in the pail she carried.

Early June was rioting in fresh grasses, bright flowers, bird songs, and gay-winged creatures of air.  Down the footpath the two went through the perfect morning, the love of God and all nature in their hearts.  At last they reached the creek, following it toward the bridge.  Here Mrs. Comstock found a large bed of tender dandelions and stopped to fill her pail.  Then she sat on the bank, picking over the greens, while she listened to the creek softly singing its June song.

Elnora remained within calling distance, and was having good success.  At last she crossed the creek, following it up to a bridge.  There she began a careful examination of the under sides of the sleepers and flooring for cocoons.  Mrs. Comstock could see her and the creek for several rods above.  The mother sat beating the long green leaves across her hand, carefully picking out the white buds, because Elnora liked them, when a splash up the creek attracted her attention.

Around the bend came a man.  He was bareheaded, dressed in a white sweater, and waders which reached his waist.  He walked on the bank, only entering the water when forced.  He had a queer basket strapped on his hip, and with a small rod he sent a long line spinning before him down the creek, deftly manipulating with it a little floating object.  He was closer Elnora than her mother, but Mrs. Comstock thought possibly by hurrying she could remain unseen and yet warn the girl that a stranger was coming.  As she approached the bridge, she caught a sapling and leaned over the water to call Elnora.  With her lips parted to speak she hesitated a second to watch a sort of insect that flashed past on the water, when a splash from the man attracted the girl.

She was under the bridge, one knee planted in the embankment and a foot braced to support her.  Her hair was tousled by wind and bushes, her face flushed, and she lifted her arms above her head, working to loosen a cocoon she had found.  The call Mrs. Comstock had intended to utter never found voice, for as Elnora looked down at the sound, “Possibly I could get that for you,” suggested the man.