Part 68 (1/2)

”Ruth, you make this toast,” said the Harvester and disappeared.

Presently he placed before his guest a couple of eggs poached in milk, a steaming bowl of beef juice, and a plate of toast. For one instant the Harvester thought this was going into the fire, the next a slice was picked up and smelled testily. The Girl sat on her grandfather's chair arm, and breaking a morsel of toast dipped it into the broth and tasted it.

”Oh but that is good!” she cried. ”Why haven't I some also? Am I supposed to have no 'tummy'?”

”Your turn next,” said the Harvester, as he again gave her the fork and went to the kitchen.

When he returned and served the Girl he found her grandfather eating heartily.

”Why I think this is fun,” said the gentle lady. ”I haven't had such a fine time in ages. I love the heat of the flame on my body and things taste so good. I could go to sleep without any narcotic, right now.”

Close her knee the Harvester knelt on the hearth with his toasting fork.

She leaned forward and ran her fingers through his hair.

”You're a braw laddie,” she said. ”Now I see why Ruthie WOULD come.”

The Harvester took the frail hand and kissed it. ”Thank you!” he returned.

”Mus.h.!.+” exploded the grizzled man in the rear.

When no one wanted more food the Harvester stacked and carried away the dishes, swept the hearth, and replaced the toaster.

”Ruth and I often lunched this way last fall,” he said. ”We liked it for a change.”

”Alexander, have you noticed?” asked the little woman as she lifted wet eyes to a beautiful portrait of her daughter beside the chimney.

”D'ye think I'm blind? Saw it as I entered the door. Poor taste! Very!

Brown may match the rug and wood-work, but it's a wretched colour for a young girl in her gay time. Should be pink and white with a gold frame.”

”That would be beautiful,” agreed the Harvester. ”We must have one that way. This is not an expensive picture. It is only an enlargement from an old photograph.”

”We have a number of very handsome likenesses. Which one can you spare Ruth, Marcella?”

”The one she likes best,” said the lady promptly.

”And the other is your mother, no doubt. What a girlish, beautiful face!”

”Wonderfully fine!” growled a gruff old voice tinctured with tears, and the Harvester began to see light.

The old man arose. ”Ruthie, help your grandmother to bed,” he said. ”And you, sir, have the goodness to walk a few steps with me.”

The Harvester sprang up and brought Mr. Herron his coat and hat and held the door. The Girl brushed past him.

”To the oak,” she whispered.

They went into the night, and without a word the Harvester took his guest's arm and guided him up the hill. When they reached the two mounds the moon s.h.i.+ning between the branches touched the lily faces with with holy whiteness.

”She sleeps there,” said the Harvester, indicating the place.

Then he turned and went down the path a little distance and waited until he feared the night air would chill the broken old man.