Alice and Margaret were straining their eyes to catch, if possible, a glimpse of the unfortunate moth.
"I can't see him," confessed Margaret; "can you, mother?"
"My dear child, my eyes are not fitted with a microscope," Alice laughed.
"There!" cried Holcomb, as the trout splashed still farther out on the quiet pond. "He's got him!"
"And we'll get him some day," exclaimed Thayor, the fever of fishing tingling within him.
"There are some big trout in here, Mr. Thayor," continued Holcomb. "I've known this pond for several years and it has been rarely, if ever, fished."
"Then, Billy, we'll have to go at them at twilight," declared Thayor.
"You had better tell Freme to bring in one of the canvas canoes."
The four retraced their way over the trail. As they reached a muddy place half way home Holcomb noticed the imprint of Margaret's trim little feet. It was evident to Alice, who had been watching him, that the tracks puzzled the young woodsman. There were four of these dainty tracks instead of two; soon the mystery was cleared as Alice Thayor passed ahead of him and Holcomb saw that Margaret's and her mother's footprint were identical in size.
"You seem puzzled," Alice remarked, as Holcomb steadied her along a sunken log.
"I was looking where you had stepped, Mrs. Thayor," he confessed.