the path border and all the wood floor a riot of colour. Elnora, born
among such scenes, worked eagerly, but to the city man, recently from a
hospital, they seemed too good to miss. He frequently stooped to examine
a flower face, paused to listen intently to the thrush or lifted his
head to see the gold flash which accompanied the oriole's trailing
notes. So Elnora uttered the first cry, as she softly lifted branches
and peered among the grasses.

"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