“A mole !” muttered Gerda, with the profound sarcasm of the country-bred; and Wolf caught a little red flush on her cheeks like a crimson shadow on a mother-of-pearl shell. “Well! we can’t do anything, anyway,” she said. “It’s silly to fuss ourselves. Bother! I’ve got some grit in my shoe!”

“It spoils the look of the grave completely, this great mole-hole,” said Mrs. Solent. Then her face lit up, and she opened her parasol with an eager click. “This is a bit of sport,” she cried. “Let’s fill the thing up! Never mind about the school-treat. Where does Valley keep his spade? We only want a spade and a roll of turf. I saw some loose turf lying about in our garden. Come on, Wolf! Let’s go over and get it, and ask Valley where he keeps his shovel.”