into his
breast pocket squarely over his heart, but he wore the case shiny the
first day taking it out. Before noon he went to the mail box and found
a long letter from the Girl, full of life, health, happiness, and with
steady assurances of love for him, but there was no mention made of
coming home.

She seemed engrossed in the music lessons, riding, dancing, pretty
clothing, splendid balls, receptions, and parties of all kinds. The
Harvester answered it with his heart full of love for her, and then
waited. It was a long week before the reply came, and then it was short
on account of so many things that must be done, but she insisted that
she was well, happy, and having a fine time. After that the letters
became less frequent and shorter. At times there would be stretches of
almost two weeks with not a line, and then only short notes to explain
that she was too busy to write.

Through the dreary, cold days of January and February the Harvester
invented work in the store-room, in the workshop, at the candlesticks,
sat long over great books, and spent hours in the little laboratory
preparing and compounding drugs. In the evenings he carved and read.
First of all he scanned the society columns of the papers he was taking,
and almost every day he found the name of Miss Ruth Jameson, often
a paragraph describing her dress and her beauty of face and charm of
manner; and constantly the name of Mr. Herbert Kennedy appeared as her
escort. At first the Harvester ignored this, and said to himself that
he was glad she could have enjoyable times and congenial friends, and
he was. But as the letters became fewer, paper paragraphs more frequent,
and approaching spring worked its old insanity in the blood, gradually
an ache crept into his heart again, and there were days when he could
not work it out.

Every letter she wrote he answered just as warmly as he felt that he
dared, but when they were so long coming and his heart was overflowing,
he picked up a pen one night and wrote what he felt. He told her all
about the ice-bound lake, the lonely crows in the big woods, the sap
suckers' cry, and the gay cardinals' whistle. He told her about the
cocoons dangling on bushes or rocking on twigs that he was cutting for
her. He warned her that spring was coming, and soon she would begin to
miss wonders for her pencil. Then he told her about the silent cabin,
the empty rooms, and a lonely man. He begged her not to forget the kiss
she had