"Do you mean several days?"

"Yes, several days."

"An eternity!" cried the Harvester with white lips. "I cannot let you
go. Suppose you fall ill and fail to write me, and I do not know where
you are, and there is no one to care for you."

"But can't you see that I don't know where I will be? If it will satisfy
you, I will write you a line to-morrow night and tell you where I am,
and you can come later."

"Is that a promise?" asked the Harvester.

"It is," said the Girl.

"Then I will take these things to your neighbour and wait until
to-morrow night. You won't fail me?"

"I never in all my life saw a man so wild over designs," said the Girl,
as she started toward the house.

"Don't forget that the design I'm craziest about is the same as the red
bird's," the Harvester flung after her, but she hurried on and made no
reply.

He folded the table and chair, rolled the rug, and shouldering them
picked up the bucket and started down the river bank.

"David!"

Such a faint little call he never would have been sure he heard anything
if Belshazzar had not stopped suddenly. The hair on the back of his neck
arose and he turned with a growl in his throat. The Harvester dropped
his load with a crash and ran in leaping bounds, but the dog was before
him. Half way to the house, Ruth Jameson swayed in the grip of her
uncle. One hand clutched his coat front in a spasmodic grasp, and with
the other she covered her face.

The roar the Harvester sent up stayed the big, lifted fist, and the dog
leaped for a throat hold, and compelled the man to defend himself. The
Harvester never knew how he covered the space until he stood between
them, and saw the Girl draw back and snatch together the front of her
dress.

"He took it from me!" she panted. "Make him, oh make him give back my
money!"

Then for a few seconds things happened too rapidly to record. Once the
Harvester tossed a torn envelope exposing money to the Girl, and again a
revolver, and then both men panting and dishevelled were on their feet.

"Count your money, Ruth?" said the Harvester in a voice of deadly quiet.

"It is all here," said she.

"Her money?" cried Henry Jameson. "My money! She has been stealing the
price of my cattle from my pockets. I thought I was short several times
lately."

"You are lying," said the Harvester deliberately. "It is her money. I
just paid it to her. You were trying to take it from her, not the other
way."

"Oh, she is i