Martin’s methods are regular and very simple, but he goes about his task each day as if the matter was a marvel of military strategy.  First he puts a book ostentatiously in one pocket and a flask of alcohol in the other.  Next he takes his torch, consisting of a piece of sponge wired to an old rake handle, which he keeps on the back stoop, and makes sure that it is tight and secure, finally searching me out to say that in case he meets Miss Lavinia, have I any message for her.

Why he does not keep his outfit up at Martha’s I do not know; perhaps because of Timothy’s keen tongue.

Miss Lavinia, after her morning housekeeping is over, takes her work bag to the narrow cottage porch and apparently gives herself up to the task of making pin-cushions for Sylvia or embroidering initials on napery.  Suddenly she will get up, say that her feet are falling asleep and that she needs a walk to restore her circulation.  Will Sylvia go with her?  Sylvia, after pretending to consider, thinks not, making some excuse of its being too warm or that she expects Horace that day.  Presently two prim people walking in opposite directions meet and, taking the same path, may be seen any morning along the less frequented roads and orchard paths, sometimes repairing the torch that has a constant tendency to lose its head, sometimes watching the destruction by fire of an unusually wicked worm city, and frequently with their heads stuck into some suspicious bush, where they appear to be watching invisible things with breathless interest.

[Illustration:  The Bug Hunters.]

Father and I chanced upon them when thus employed the other morning.  Martin turned about and in the most serious manner began to dilate upon the peculiarities of worms in general and particular, as well as of the appropriateness of their study by the book collector, as the score and a half insects that injure books and their bindings are not worms at all, having none of the characteristics of the veritable book worm Sitodrepa panicea, to all of which Miss Lavinia listened with devout attention.

“What makes them act so?” I said, half to myself, as we drove on, and father stopped shaking with laughter.  “There isn’t the slightest reason why they should not go to walk together; why do they manoeuvre with all the transparency of ostriches?”

“It’s another manifestation of suppressed youth,” said father, wiping his eyes, “upon the principle that the boy would rather slip out of the window to go coasting at night than ask leave and walk out publicly, and that when a young girl begins to grow romantic, she often takes infinite pains to go round the back way to meet some one who is quite welcome at the front door.  When young folks have not had a chance to do these things, and the motive for them lies dormant, heaven alone knows how or when it will break loose.”

Others, however, have observed, and the “Bug Hunters” has now come to be the local nickname of these two most respectable middle-aged people with ancestors.