It was so long ago that I could not talk plainly, but I remember distinctly what a stifling hot day it was.

Mamma had been packing her furs away for the summer in moth-balls.

You know how horridly those camphor things smell.

I hung over her and asked questions every time she moved.

She told me how the moth-millers lay eggs in the furs if they are not protected, and showed me an old muff that she had found in the attic, which was so badly moth-eaten that it had to be thrown away.