Many letters on this subject had been written; it was all no use. He had to go, and his grandmother's eyes were angry when the subject was mentioned, and his own heart heavy and sore in his breast. Aunt Valeria had never said anything, but she was even kinder to him after the decision, especially at dusk, when one felt dreary. Mrs. Gano would seldom allow even the hall lamp to be lighted in the summer evenings, probably from motives of economy; but this reason was never given for any mandate except under great pressure. The ostensible end served by sitting in the dusk and groping one's way up-stairs, or being beholden to the moon for acting as the domestic candle, was that if darkness reigned mosquitoes and miller-moths were not attracted into the house; neither were those great winged things with horns, that one never saw in Boston, which fact would have compensated Ethan for endurance of the dark if anything could. In the moments preceding bedtime, the firefly had been a distinct consolation. That very morning he had hid Aunt Valeria's empty cut-glass camphor-bottle under the syringa-bush, and now was the time to try the experiment of bottling a few fireflies and seeing how they lightened their captivity. He sallied forth into the scented dusk, whistling softly. His plan worked wondrous well. With each new victim his spirits mounted higher, he thinking--poor deluded soul!--that he should never again feel downhearted in the dusk. He had caught and imprisoned over a dozen of these winged lamps, when Aunt Valeria came through the bushes, calling softly: "Ethan! Ethan!" "Yes; here I am." He concealed her camphor-bottle as well as he could under his jacket, but the bottle was big and the jacket was small. "Bedtime," called the voice. "Just a few more fire--I mean minutes." "No; your grandmother says it is past the time." "Oh, dear! then I s'pose it is." He came out of his covert, and on a sudden impulse added, hurriedly: "Aunt Valeria, do you _care_ about your camphor-bottle?" "Care about it?" "Yes; do you mind if there's fireflies in it instead of camphor?" He held it up, and the captives lit their pale lamps and fluttered despairingly. "Oh, my dear! they'll die." "No; they like it. It's such a beautiful bottle." "But you've got the glass stopper in; they can't breathe." In spite of his entreating, she took out the stopper, and put the end of her lace scarf over the opening. "You won't take it away from me?" "No, no," she said, gently leading him back to the front porch, repeating as she went: "'The shooting stars attend thee, And the elves also, Whose little eyes glow Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee.'" "It isn't their little eyes that glow; it's their little tails," said Ethan, with his nose flattened against the camphor-bottle.