ithout me,'
Bel, that is what she said. Maybe it would be a scheme to bring Granny
here to stay with her, and take a few months in some city this winter
on those chemical points that trouble me. There is an old saying about
'absence making the heart grow fonder.' Maybe separation is the thing to
work the trick. I've tried about everything else I know.

"But I'm in too much of a hurry! What a fool a man is! A few weeks ago,
Bel, I said to myself that if Harmon were away and had no part in her
life I'd be the happiest man alive. Happiest man alive! Bel, take a look
at me now! Happy! Well, why shouldn't I be happy? She is here. She is
growing in strength and beauty every hour. She cares more for me day
by day. From an outside viewpoint it seems as if I had almost all a man
could ask in reason. But when was a strong man in the grip of love ever
reasonable? I think the Almighty took a pretty grave responsibility when
He made men as He did. If I had been He, and understood the forces I was
handling, I would have been too big a coward to do it. There is nothing
for me, Bel, but to move on doing my level best; and if she doesn't
awaken soon, I will try the absent treatment. As sure as you are the
most faithful dog a man ever owned, Bel, I'll try the absent treatment."

The Harvester arose and entered the cabin, stepping softly, for it was
dark in the Girl's room, and he could not hear a sound there. He turned
up the lights in the living-room. As he did so the first thing he saw
was the little trunk. He looked at it intently, then picked up a book.
Every page he turned he glanced again at the trunk. At last he laid
down the book and sat staring, his brain working rapidly. He ended by
carrying the trunk to his room. He darkened the living-room, lighted his
own, drew the rain screens, and piece by piece carefully examined the
contents. There were the pictures, but the name of the photographer had
been removed. There was not a word that would help in identification. He
emptied it to the bottom, and as he picked up the last piece his fingers
struck in a peculiar way that did not give the impression of touching
a solid surface. He felt over it carefully, and when he examined with
a candle he plainly could see where the cloth lining had been cut and
lifted.

For a long time he knelt staring at it, then he deliberately inserted
his knife blade and raised it. The cloth had been glued to a heavy sheet
of pasteboard the exact size of th