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Rh could not replace the yellow moth she had killed. She set her eyes on 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, and I've got to have them. 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?" "Yellow, and big as a bird." "The Emperor, likely," said Pete. "You dig for that kind, and they are not numerous, so's 'at you can smash 'em for fun." "Well, I can try to get one, anyway," said Mrs. Comstock. "I forgot all about bringing anything to put them in. You take a pinch on their wings until I make a poke." Mrs. Comstock removed her apron, tearing off the