Mrs. Comstock drew back.  He was a young man with a wonderfully attractive face, although it was too white for robust health, broad shoulders, and slender, upright frame.

“Oh, I do hope you can!” answered Elnora.  “It’s quite a find!  It’s one of those lovely pale red cocoons described in the books.  I suspect it comes from having been in a dark place and screened from the weather.”

“Is that so?” cried the man.  “Wait a minute.  I’ve never seen one.  I suppose it’s a Cecropia, from the location.”

“Of course,” said Elnora.  “It’s so cool here the moth hasn’t emerged.  The cocoon is a big, baggy one, and it is as red as fox tail.”

“What luck!” he cried.  “Are you making a collection?”

He reeled in his line, laid his rod across a bush and climbed the embankment to Elnora’s side, produced a knife and began the work of whittling a deep groove around the cocoon.

“Yes.  I paid my way through the high school in Onabasha with them.  Now I am starting a collection which means college.”

“Onabasha!” said the man.  “That is where I am visiting.  Possibly you know my people—­Dr. Ammon’s?  The doctor is my uncle.  My home is in Chicago.  I’ve been having typhoid fever, something fierce.  In the hospital six weeks.  Didn’t gain strength right, so Uncle Doc sent for me.  I am to live out of doors all summer, and exercise until I get in condition again.  Do you know my uncle?”

“Yes.  He is Aunt Margaret’s doctor, and he would be ours, only we are never ill.”

“Well, you look it!” said the man, appraising Elnora at a glance.

“Strangers always mention it,” sighed Elnora.  “I wonder how it would seem to be a pale, languid lady and ride in a carriage.”

“Ask me!” laughed the man.  “It feels like the—­dickens!  I’m so proud of my feet.  It’s quite a trick to stand on them now.  I have to keep out of the water all I can and stop to baby every half-mile.  But with interesting outdoor work I’ll be myself in a week.”

“Do you call that work?” Elnora indicated the creek.

“I do, indeed!  Nearly three miles, banks too soft to brag on and never a strike.  Wouldn’t you call that hard labour?”

“Yes,” laughed Elnora.  “Work at which you might kill yourself and never get a fish.  Did any one tell you there were trout in Sleepy Snake Creek?”

“Uncle said I could try.”

“Oh, you can,” said Elnora.  “You can try no end, but you’ll never get a trout.  This is too far south and too warm for them.  If you sit on the bank and use worms you might catch some perch or catfish.”

“But that isn’t exercise.”

“Well, if you only want exercise, go right on fishing.  You will have a creel full of invisible results every night.”

“I object,” said the man emphatically.  He stopped work again and studied Elnora.  Even the watching mother could not blame him.  In the shade of the bridge Elnora’s bright head and her lavender dress made a picture worthy of much contemplation.