I asked you to keep it until I can find
a way to go to town? It's too far to walk and I don't know how to send
it. Would I dare put it in a letter?"

"Never!" said the Harvester. "You want a draft. That money will be too
precious to run any risks. I'll bring it to you and you can write a note
and explain to whom you want it paid, and I'll take it to the bank for
you and get your draft. Then you can write a letter, and half your worry
will be over safely."

"It must be done in a sure way," said the Girl. "If I knew I had the
money to pay that much on what I owe, and then lost it, I simply could
not endure it. I would lie down and give up as Aunt Molly has."

"Forget that too!" said the Harvester. "Wipe out all the past that has
pain in it. The future is going to be beautifully bright. That little
bird on the bush there just told me so, and you are always safe when you
trust the feathered folk. If you are going to live in the country
any length of time, you must know them, and they will become a great
comfort. Are you planning to be here long?"

"I have no plans. After what I saw Chicago do to my mother I would
rather finish life in the open than return to the city. It is horrible
here, but at least I'm not hungry, and not afraid----all the time."

"Gracious Heaven!" cried the Harvester. "Do you mean to say that you are
afraid any part of the time? Would you kindly tell me of whom, and why?"

"You should know without being told that when a woman born and reared
in a city, and all her life confined there, steps into the woods for the
first time, she's bound to be afraid. The last few weeks constitute my
entire experience with the country, and I'm in mortal fear that snakes
will drop from trees and bushes or spring from the ground. Some places I
think I'm sinking, and whenever a bush catches my skirts it seems as
if something dreadful is reaching up for me; there is a possibility of
horror lurking behind every tree and----"

"Stop!" cried the Harvester. "I can't endure it! Do you mean to tell me
that you are afraid here and now?"

She met his eyes squarely.

"Yes," she said. "It almost makes me ill to sit on this log without
taking a stick and poking all around it first. Every minute I think
something is going to strike me in the back or drop on my head."

The Harvester grew very white beneath the tan, and that developed a
nice, sickly green complexion for him.

"Am I part of your tortures?" he asked tersely.