"You have it in your fingers."

"You know that I would like to thank you properly, if I had words to
express myself."

"Never mind that," said the Harvester. "Tell me what you are planning.
Say that you will come to the hospital for the long, perfect rest now."

"It is absolutely impossible. Don't weary me by mentioning it. I
cannot."

"Will you tell me what you intend doing?"

"I must," she said, "for it depends entirely on your word. I am going
to get Uncle Henry's supper, and then go and remain the night with the
neighbour who has been helping me. In the morning, when he leaves, she
is coming with her wagon for my trunk, and she is going to drive with me
to Onabasha and find me a cheap room and loan me a few things, until I
can buy what I need. I am going to use fourteen dollars of this and my
drawing money for what I am forced to buy, and pay fifty on my debt.
Then I will send you my address and be ready for work."

She clutched the envelope and for the first time looked at him.

"Very well," said the Harvester. "I could take you to the wife of my
best friend, the chief surgeon of the city hospital, and everything
would be ease and rest until you are strong; she would love to have
you."

The Girl dropped her hands wearily.

"Don't tire me with it!" she cried. "I am almost falling despite the
stimulus of food and drink I can touch. I never can thank you properly
for that. I won't be able to work hard enough to show you how much I
appreciate what you have done for me. But you don't understand. A woman,
even a poverty-poor woman, if she be delicately born and reared, cannot
go to another woman on a man's whim, and when she lacks even the barest
necessities. I don't refuse to meet your friends. I shall love to, when
I can be so dressed that I will not shame you. Until that times comes,
if you are the gentleman you appear to be, you will wait without urging
me further."

"I must be a man, in order to be a gentleman," said the Harvester. "And
it is because the man in me is in hot rebellion against more loneliness,
pain, and suffering for you, that the conventions become chains I do not
care how soon or how roughly I break. If only you could be induced to
say the word, I tell you I could bring one of God's gentlest women to
you."

"And probably she would come in a dainty gown, in her carriage or motor,
and be disgusted, astonished, and secretly sorry for you. As for me, I
do not require her pity. I will be g