red enough to drop, read books
that helped, tinkered with the carving, and sometimes I had an idea,
and I went into that little building behind the dry-house, took out my
different herbs, and tried my hand at compounding a new cure for some of
the pains of humanity. It isn't bad work, Ruth. It keeps a fellow at
a fairly decent level, and some good may come of it. Carey is trying
several formulae for me, and if they work I'll carry them higher. If you
want money, Girl, I know how to get it for you."

"Don't you want it?"

"Not one cent more than I've got," said the Harvester emphatically.
"When any man accumulates more than he can earn with his own hands, he
begins to enrich himself at the expense of the youth, the sweat, the
blood, the joy of his fellow men. I can go to the city, take a look, and
see what money does, as a rule, and it's another thing I'm afraid of.
You will find me a dreadful coward on those two points. I don't want to
know society and its ways. I see what it does to other men; it would be
presumption to reckon myself stronger. So I live alone. As for money,
I've watched the cross cuts and the quick and easy ways to accumulate
it; but I've had something in me that held me to the slow, sure, clean
work of my own hands, and it's yielded me enough for one, for two even,
in a reasonable degree. So I've worked, read, compounded, and carved. If
I couldn't wear myself down enough to sleep by any other method, I went
into the lake, and swam across and back; and that is guaranteed to put
any man to rest, clean and unashamed."

"Six years," said the Girl softly, as she studied him. "I think it has
set a mark on you. I believe I can trace it. Your forehead, brow,
and eyes bear the lines and the appearance of all experience, all
comprehension, but your lips are those of a very young lad. I shouldn't
be surprised if I had that kiss ready for you, and I really believe I
can make it worth while."

"Oh good Lord!" cried the Harvester, turning a backward somersault over
the railing and starting in big bounds up the drive toward the stable.
He passed around it and into the woods at a rush and a few seconds later
from somewhere on the top of the hill his strong, deep voice swept down,
"Glory, glory hallelujah!"

He sang it through at the top of his lungs, that majestic old hymn,
but there was no music at all, it was simply a roar. By and by he came
soberly to the barn and paused to stroke Betsy's nose.

"Stop chewi