d set up the little table and chair for the Girl.

"Want a plant to draw?" he asked. "This is very important to us. It
has a string of names as long as a princess, but I call it goldenseal,
because the roots are yellow. The chemists ask for hydrastis. That
sounds formidable, but it's a cousin of buttercups. The woods of Ohio
and Indiana produce the finest that ever grew, but it is so nearly
extinct now that the trade can be supplied by cultivation only. I
suspect I'm responsible for its disappearance around here. I used to get
a dollar fifty a pound, and most of my clothes and books when a boy I
owe to it. Now I get two for my finest grade; that accounts for the size
of these beds."

"It's pretty!" said the Girl, studying a plant averaging a foot in
height. On a slender, round, purplish stem arose one big, rough leaf,
heavily veined, and having from five to nine lobes. Opposite was a
similar leaf, but very small, and a head of scarlet berries resembling
a big raspberry in shape. The Harvester shook the black woods soil from
the yellow roots, and held up the plant.

"You won't enjoy the odour," he said.

"Well I like the leaves. I know I can use them some way. They are so
unusual. What wonderful colour in the roots!"

"One of its names is Indian paint," explained the Harvester. "Probably
it furnished the squaws of these woods with colouring matter. Now let's
see what we can get out of it. You draw the plant and I'll dig the
roots."

For a time the Girl bent over her work and the Harvester was busy.
Belshazzar ranged the woods chasing chipmunks. The birds came asking
questions. When the drawing was completed, other subjects were found at
every turn, and the Girl talked almost constantly, her face alive with
interest. The May-apple beds lay close, and she drew from them. She
learned the uses and prices of the plant, and also made drawings of
cohosh, moonseed and bloodroot. That was so wonderful in its root
colour, the Harvester filled the little cup with water and she began
to paint. Intensely absorbed she bent above the big, notched, silvery
leaves and the blood-red roots, testing and trying to match them
exactly. Every few minutes the Harvester leaned over her shoulder to see
how she was progressing and to offer suggestions. When she finished she
picked up a trailing vine of moonseed.

"You have this on the porch," she said. "I think it is lovely. There
is no end to the beautiful combinations of leaves, and these