Oliver fondly flattered himself that he had done some good in this quarter. But unfortunately, the big young baker was of a self-conscious, sensitive disposition. He was abashed by the sudden favourable notice of a pursuit, which, though he had fallen into it, he had always been accustomed to look upon as very much the childish folly his companions held it to be. He allowed himself to be overcome by the half-jealous chaff which went on in the shop at the result of the jeering information which some of the men had volunteered to give their master. The unfortunate admirer of butterflies began to hate the mention even of a beetle or a bumble-bee. He doggedly declined to have anything to do with refilling the cases in the museum. He showed Oliver, in a nervous but unmistakable manner, that the man would have none of the master’s sympathy, and took refuge in the skittle-ground nearest to his lodgings, that he might not be tempted into the fields, and betrayed into the absurdity of butterfly-hunting, thus destroying the _esprit de corps_ between him and his brother-bakers, and alienating them from his side. Oliver’s small amount of good done effervesced in harm. And when a letter in the ‘Friarton News’ only bore the fruit of several more or less cordial and enthusiastic replies from those ‘pottering gentlefolks,’ schoolmasters, and a working-man or two, of whom Jack Dadd had spoken, Oliver withdrew from the scheme, leaving the members who had suggested themselves to render it an accomplished fact and to include in the society—if they had the wisdom to extend their bounds in that direction, all the idle young ladies in the neighbourhood—who were not too fastidious, or too delicate, or too lazy to enter the ranks, and to take to making herbariums, in place of playing incessant games of croquet, badminton, or lawn-tennis, whichever happened to be in the ascendant, alternately with district-visiting under the last fascinating curate. They were very well qualified to do this work without him. Oliver was sensible that he might incur the reproach of not knowing his own mind. But he did know it well enough not to be diverted, by a specious and rather agreeable prospect, from his proper purpose. If none of the Dadd and Polley set could be drawn out to study botany, he would let it alone for the present. The next bright idea which struck Oliver was to join Jack Dadd’s company of volunteers—not that Jack was their captain, but he was an influential member of the corps. He was a tolerably smart soldier, a fair shot, proud of his uniform and of what he had learnt of drill. He might be a greater man in the volunteer ball-room than at a sham fight, but he was honestly possessed with the notion that he was serving his country and forming part of her martial bulwark. For that matter he occasionally terrified his mother by swaggering and threatening, after a tiff with his father, to join any reserved force which should be called abroad.