f pollarded acacias. Michael saw the moth first on the
lowest bough of a tree. It was jet-black marked with thick creamy
stripes. Neither he nor Hands had a net, and they trembled with
excitement and chagrin. Michael threw a stone rather ineffectively and
the moth changed its position, showing before it settled down on a
higher branch underwings of glowing vermilion.

"Oh, what can it be?" Michael cried, dancing.

"It's frightfully rare," squeaked Hands.

"You watch it carefully, while I scoot for a net," commanded Michael.

He tore along up the darkening drive, careless of ghosts or travelling
seamen bent on murder and robbery. He rushed into the hall and shouted,
'A terribly rare moth in the drive! Quick, my net!' and rushed back to
the vigilant Hands. The others followed, and after every cunning of the
hunter had been tried, the moth was at last secured and after a search
through Kirby's Butterflies and Moths pronounced to be a Jersey Tiger,
not so rare, after all, in fact very common abroad. But it was a
glorious beast when set, richly black, barred and striped with damasked
cream over a flame of orange-scarlet.

The six weeks were over. Michael had to leave in advance of the others,
in order to enter for his scholarship examination at St. James'. Mr.
Lodge took him to St. Malo and handed him over to the charge of
Rutherford's older brother, who was already at St. James' and would see
Michael safely to London. Michael could scarcely believe that this
Rutherford was a boy, so tall was he, such a heavy black moustache had
he and so pleasant was he to Michael. Michael thought with regret of the
green and golden days in Brittany, as he waved to Mr. Lodge standing on
the St. Malo jetty. He felt, as the steamer sailed across the glassy sea
through a thick September haze, that he was coming back to greater
adventures, that he was older and, as he paced beside Rutherford up and
down the deck, that he was more important. But he thought with regret of
Brittany and squeaky Hands and the warm days of butterflies. He hoped to
return next year and see again the fig tree by his bedroom window and
the level shore of the Loire estuary and the tangled tumble-down garden
on the cliff's edge. He would always think of Mr. Lodge and Mr. Vernon,
those very dearly loved schoolmasters. He would think of the ghostly
Breton lanes at twilight and the glorious Sundays unspoilt by church or
best clothes and of the bull-frogs in the emerald p