old people, she is going to write
us all about it soon, and she loves us all she knows how to love any
one. That should be enough to keep us sane and sensible until her letter
comes. There is no use to borrow trouble, so we will say everything in
the world is right with us, and be as happy as we can on that until we
find something we cannot avoid worrying over. In the meantime, we will
have faith to believe that we have suffered our share, and the end will
be happy for all of us. I am mighty glad the Girl has a home, and the
right kind of people to care for her. Now, when she comes back to me, I
needn't feel that she was forced, whether she wanted to or not, because
she had nowhere to go. This will let me out with a clean conscience, and
that is the only thing on earth that allows a man to live in peace with
himself. Now I'll go finish everything else, and then I'll begin the
ginseng harvest."

So the Harvester hitched Betsy and with Belshazzar at his feet he drove
through the woods to the sarsaparilla beds. He noticed the beautiful
lobed leaves, at which the rabbits had been nibbling, and the heads of
lustrous purple-black berries as he began digging the roots that he sold
for stimulants.

"I might have needed a dose of you now myself," the Harvester addressed
a heap of uprooted plants, "if the electric wires hadn't brought me a
better. Great invention that! Never before realized it fully! I thought
to-day would be black as night, but that message changes the complexion
of affairs mightily. So I'll dig you for people who really are in need
of something to brace them up."

After the sarsaparilla was on the trays, he attacked the beds of Indian
hemp, with its long graceful pods, and took his usual supply. Then he
worked diligently on the warm hillside over the dandelion. When these
were finished he brought half a dozen young men from the city and
drilled them on handling ginseng. He was warm, dirty, and tired when he
came from the beds the evening of the fourth day. He finished his work
at the barn, prepared and ate his supper, slipped into clean clothing,
and walked to the country road where it crossed the lane. There he
opened his mail box. The letter he expected with the Philadelphia
postmark was inside. He carried it to the bridge, and sitting in her
favourite place, with the lake breeze threading his hair, opened his
first letter from the Girl.

"My dear Friend, Lover, Husband," it began.

The Harvester turne