“My find!” she called.  “Bring the box, mother!”

Philip came hurrying also.  When they reached her she stood on the path holding a pair of moths.  Her eyes were wide with excitement, her cheeks pink, her red lips parted, and on the hand she held out to them clung a pair of delicate blue-green moths, with white bodies, and touches of lavender and straw colour.  All around her lay flower-brocaded grasses, behind the deep green background of the forest, while the sun slowly sifted gold from heaven to burnish her hair.  Mrs. Comstock heard a sharp breath behind her.

“Oh, what a picture!” exulted Philip at her shoulder.  “She is absolutely and altogether lovely!  I’d give a small fortune for that faithfully set on canvas!”

He picked the box from Mrs. Comstock’s fingers and slowly advanced with it.  Elnora held down her hand and transferred the moths.  Philip closed the box carefully, but the watching mother saw that his eyes were following the girl’s face.  He was not making the slightest attempt to conceal his admiration.

“I wonder if a woman ever did anything lovelier than to find a pair of Luna moths on a forest path, early on a perfect June morning,” he said to Mrs. Comstock, when he returned the box.

She glanced at Elnora who was intently searching the bushes.

“Look here, young man,” said Mrs. Comstock.  “You seem to find that girl of mine about right.”

“I could suggest no improvement,” said Philip.  “I never saw a more attractive girl anywhere.  She seems absolutely perfect to me.”

“Then suppose you don’t start any scheme calculated to spoil her!” proposed Mrs. Comstock dryly.  “I don’t think you can, or that any man could, but I’m not taking any risks.  You asked to come here to help in this work.  We are both glad to have you, if you confine yourself to work; but it’s the least you can do to leave us as you find us.”

“I beg your pardon!” said Philip.  “I intended no offence.  I admire her as I admire any perfect creation.”

“And nothing in all this world spoils the average girl so quickly and so surely,” said Mrs. Comstock.  She raised her voice.  “Elnora, fasten up that tag of hair over your left ear.  These bushes muss you so you remind me of a sheep poking its nose through a hedge fence.”

Mrs. Comstock started down the path toward the log again, when she reached it she called sharply:  “Elnora, come here!  I believe I have found something myself.”

The “something” was a Citheronia Regalis which had emerged from its case on the soft earth under the log.  It climbed up the wood, its stout legs dragging a big pursy body, while it wildly flapped tiny wings the size of a man’s thumb-nail.  Elnora gave one look and a cry which brought Philip.

“That’s the rarest moth in America!” he announced.  “Mrs. Comstock, you’ve gone up head.  You can put that in a box with a screen cover to-night, and attract half a dozen, possibly.”