“They are,” said Elnora.  “Most I have I took there.  A few nights ago my mother caught a number, but we don’t dare go alone.”

“All the more reason why you need me.  Where do you live?  I can’t get an answer from you, I’ll go tell your mother who I am and ask her if I may help you.  I warn you, young lady, I have a very effective way with mothers.  They almost never turn me down.”

“Then it’s probable you will have a new experience when you meet mine,” said Elnora.  “She never was known to do what any one expected she surely would.”

The cocoon came loose.  Philip Ammon stepped down the embankment turning to offer his hand to Elnora.  She ran down as she would have done alone, and taking the cocoon turned it end for end to learn if the imago it contained were alive.  Then Ammon took back the cocoon to smooth the edges.  Mrs. Comstock gave them one long look as they stood there, and returned to her dandelions.  While she worked she paused occasionally, listening intently.  Presently they came down the creek, the man carrying the cocoon as if it were a jewel, while Elnora made her way along the bank, taking a lesson in casting.  Her face was flushed with excitement, her eyes shining, the bushes taking liberties with her hair.  For a picture of perfect loveliness she scarcely could have been surpassed, and the eyes of Philip Ammon seemed to be in working order.

“Moth-er!” called Elnora.

There was an undulant, caressing sweetness in the girl’s voice, as she sung out the call in perfect confidence that it would bring a loving answer, that struck deep in Mrs. Comstock’s heart.  She never had heard that word so pronounced before and a lump arose in her throat.

“Here!” she answered, still cleaning dandelions.

“Mother, this is Mr. Philip Ammon, of Chicago,” said Elnora.  “He has been ill and he is staying with Dr. Ammon in Onabasha.  He came down the creek fishing and cut this cocoon from under the bridge for me.  He feels that it would be better to hunt moths than to fish, until he is well.  What do you think about it?”

Philip Ammon extended his hand.  “I am glad to know you,” he said.

“You may take the hand-shaking for granted,” replied Mrs. Comstock.  “Dandelions have a way of making fingers sticky, and I like to know a man before I take his hand, anyway.  That introduction seems mighty comprehensive on your part, but it still leaves me unclassified.  My name is Comstock.”

Philip Ammon bowed.

“I am sorry to hear you have been sick,” said Mrs. Comstock.  “But if people will live where they have such vile water as they do in Chicago, I don’t see what else they are to expect.”

Philip studied her intently.

“I am sure I didn’t have a fever on purpose,” he said.

“You do seem a little wobbly on your legs,” she observed.  “Maybe you had better sit and rest while I finish these greens.  It’s late for the genuine article, but in the shade, among long grass they are still tender.”