MOTHS OF THE LIMBERLOST 



works over it, a sort of instinct, an extra sense as it were, 

 is acquired. Three rods away, I became certain I had 

 seen something move, so strongly the conviction swept 

 over me that we had passed a moth. Still, it was raining, 

 and the ditch was wet and deep. 



"I am sorry we did not stop," I said, half to myself, 

 "I can't help feeling that was a moth." 



There is where youth, in all its impetuosity helped me. 

 If the girl had asked, "Shall I go back.!^" In all prob- 

 ability I would have answered, "No, I must have been 

 mistaken. Drive on!" 



Instead, Molly-Cotton, who had straightened herself, 

 and touched up her horse for a brisk entrance into town, 

 said, "Well, we will just settle that 'feeling' right 

 here!" 



At a trot, she deftly cut a curve in the broad road and 

 drove back. She drew close the edge of the ditch as we 

 approached the lilies. As the horse stopped, what I 

 had taken for a fallen lily bloom, suddenly opened to 

 over five inches of gorgeous red-brown, canary-spotted 

 wing sweep, and then closed again. 



"It is a moth!" we gasped, with one breath. 



Molly-Cotton cramped the wheel on my side of the 

 carriage and started to step down. Then she dropped 

 back to the seat. 



"I am afraid," she said. "I don't want you to wade 

 that ditch in the rain, but you never have had a red o«e, 



339 



