n his search for her, and
the amazed Girl sat staring at him. He told of Doctor Carey having seen
her once, and inquired as they passed the bed if the yellow violets had
revived. He stopped to search and found a few late ones, deep among the
leaves.

"Oh if I only had known that!" cried the Girl, "I would have kept them
forever."

"No need," said the Harvester. "Here and now I present you with the sole
ownership of the entire white and yellow violet beds. Next spring you
shall fill your room. Won't that be a treat?"

"One money never could buy!" cried the Girl.

"Seems to be my strong point," commented the Harvester. "The most I have
to offer worth while is something you can't buy. There is a fine fairy
platform. They can spare you one. I'll get it."

The Harvester broke from a tree a large fan-shaped fungus, the surface
satin fine, the base mossy, and explained to the Girl that these were
the ballrooms of the woods, the floors on which the little people dance
in the moonlight at their great celebrations. Then he added a piece
of woolly dog moss, and showed her how each separate spine was like a
perfect little evergreen tree.

"That is where the fairies get their Christmas pines," he explained.

"Do you honestly believe in fairies?"

"Surely!" exclaimed the Harvester. "Who would tell me when the maples
are dripping sap, and the mushrooms springing up, if the fairies didn't
whisper in the night? Who paints the flower faces, colours the leaves,
enamels the ripening fruit with bloom, and frosts the window pane to let
me know that it is time to prepare for winter? Of course! They are my
friends and everyday helpers. And the winds are good to me. They carry
down news when tree bloom is out, when the pollen sifts gold from the
bushes, and it's time to collect spring roots. The first bluebird always
brings me a message. Sometimes he comes by the middle of February, again
not until late March. Always on his day, Belshazzar decides my fate for
a year. Six years we've played that game; now it is ended in blessed
reality. In the woods and at my work I remain until I die, with a few
outside tries at medicine making. I am putting up some compounds in
which I really have faith. Of course they have got to await their time
to be tested, but I believe in them. I have grown stuff so carefully,
gathered it according to rules, washed it decently, and dried and mixed
it with such scrupulous care. Night after night I've sat over the