“Well, Godʼs moles, if you prefer it, Master Garnet. At any rate, you have no right to catch them.” “But I only want to catch one, Amy; a white one, oh, such a beauty! I have heard of him since he was born, and had my eye on him down all the galleries; and now he must be full–grown, for he was born quite early in August.” “I hope heʼll live to be a hundred. And I will thank you, Master Garnet, to speak to _me_ with proper respect.” Up went another riser. There was only one left now, and that a most especial trap, which had cost a whole weekʼs cogitation. “I declare you are a most dreadful girl. You donʼt like anything I do. And I have thought so much of you.” “Then, once for all, I beg you never more to do so. I have often wished to speak with you upon that very subject.” “What—what subject, Miss Rosedew? I have no idea what you mean.” “That is altogether false. But I will tell you now. I mean the silly, ungentlemanly, and very childish manner, excusable only in such a boy, in which I have several times observed you loitering about in the forest.” Bob knew what she meant right well, although she would not more plainly express it—his tracking of her footsteps. He turned as red as meadow–sorrel, and stammered out what he could. “I am—very—very sorry. But I did not mean it. I mean—I could not help it.” “You will be kind enough to help it now, for once and for all. Otherwise, my father, who has not heard of it yet, shall speak to yours about it. Insufferable impudence in a boy just come from school!” Amy was obliged to turn away, for fear he should look up again, and see the laughter in her eyes. For all her wrath was feigned, inasmuch as to her Bob Garnet was far too silly a butterfly–boy to awake any real anger. But of late he had been intrusive, and it seemed high time to stop it. “If I have done anything wrong, Miss Rosedew, anything in any way unbecoming a gentleman——” “Yes, try to be a good boy again,” said Amy, very graciously; at the same time giving the stroke of grace to his masterpiece of mechanism, designed to catch the white mole alive; “now take up your playthings and go, if you please; for I expect a young lady here directly; and your little tools for cockchafer–spinning would barbarize the foreground of our sketch, besides being very ugly.” “Oh!” cried Bob, with a sudden access of his fathers readiness—”you spin a fellow worse than any cockchafer, and you do it in the name of humanity!”