Moths were coming. She had one in each hand. They were not yellow, and
she did not know what to do. She glanced around to try to discover some
way to keep what she had, and her throbbing heart stopped and every
muscle stiffened. There was the dim outline of a crouching figure not
two yards away, and a pair of eyes their owner thought hidden, caught
the light in a cold stream. Her first impulse was to scream and fly for
life. Before her lips could open a big moth alighted on her breast while
she felt another walking over her hair. All sense of caution deserted
her. She did not care to live if she could not replace the yellow moth
she had killed. She turned her eyes to those among the leaves.

"Here, you!" she cried hoarsely. "I need you! Get yourself out here, and
help me. These critters are going to get away from me. Hustle!"

Pete Corson parted the bushes and stepped into the light.

"Oh, it's you!" said Mrs. Comstock. "I might have known! But you gave
me a start. Here, hold these until I make some sort of bag for them. Go
easy! If you break them I don't guarantee what will happen to you!"

"Pretty fierce, ain't you!" laughed Pete, but he advanced and held out
his hands. "For Elnora, I s'pose?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Comstock. "In a mad fit, I trampled one this morning,
and by the luck of the old boy himself it was the last moth she needed
to complete a collection. I got to get another one or die."

"Then I guess it's your funeral," said Pete. "There ain't a chance in a
dozen the right one will come. What colour was it?"