Cautiously Peter investigated.  Perhaps a chicken-snake had crawled into the shed; perhaps a black-snake was hunting in there for rats; over there in that dark corner, behind sticks of pine, something was moving.  And then he heard a sound he knew.

“Snakes nothin’!” shouted Peter, joyfully.  “It’s Martin Luther!” He got on his hands and knees and squirmed and wriggled himself behind the wood.  There he remained, transfixed.  His faith had received a shocking blow.

“Oh, Martin Luther!” cried Peter, with mingled joy and relief and reproach.  “Oh, Martin Luther!  How you’ve fooled me!” Martin Luther was a proud and purring mother.

Peter was bewildered and aggrieved.  “If I’d called him Mary or Martha in the beginning, I’d be glad for him to have as many kittens as he wanted to,” he told his mother.  “But how can I ever trust him again?  He—­he ain’t Martin Luther any more!” And of a sudden he began to cry.

Emma Campbell, with a bundle of clean wet clothes on her brawny arm, shook her head at him.

“Lawd, no, Peter!  ’T ain’t de cat whut ‘s been foolin’ you; it ’s you whut ‘s been foolin’ yo’ own self.  For, lo, fum de foundations ob dis worl’, he was a she!  Must n’ blame de cat, chile.  ’Cause ef you does,” said Emma, waving an arm like a black mule’s hind leg for strength, “ef you does, ‘stead o’ layin’ de blame whah it natchelly b’longs—­on yo’ own ig’nance, Peter—­you’ll go thoo dis worl’ wid every Gawd’s tom-cat you comes by havin’ kittens on you!”

“I feel like a father to those kittens,” said Peter, gravely.  But it was plain that Martin Luther’s furry fourlegs had put Peter’s nose out of joint!

Things were getting worse and worse at school, too, although Peter considerately concealed this from his mother.  He didn’t tell her that the promotions she was so proud of had come to him simply because his teachers were so desperately anxious to get rid of him!  And only to-day an incident had happened that seared his soul.  He had been forced to stand out on the floor for twenty cruel, grueling minutes, to be a Horrible Example to a tittering class.  It had been a long, wearisome day, when one’s head ached because one’s stomach was empty.  Peter’s eyes stung and smarted, his lip was bruised because he had bitten it to keep it from trembling, and his heart was more like a boil in his breast than a little boy’s heart.  When he was finally released for the day he didn’t linger, but got away as fast as his thin legs would carry him.  Once he was sure he was out of sight of all unfriendly eyes he let himself go and cried as he trudged along the Riverton Road.  And there, in the afternoon sunlight, he made the acquaintance of the Red Admiral.

Just at that spot the Riverton Road was tree-shaded and bird-haunted.  There were clumps of elder here and there, and cassena bushes, and tall fennel in the corners of the old worm-fence bordering the fields on each side.  The worm-fence was of a polished, satiny, silvery gray, with trimmings of green vines clinging to it, wild-flowers peeping out of its crotches, and tall purple thistles swaying their heads toward it.  On one especially tall thistle the Red Admiral had come to anchor.