stability for his work. The remainder described his methods in growing
drugs, drying and packing them, and the end was a presentation for their
examination of the remedy that had given life where a great surgeon had
conceded death. Then he began amplification.

When the sugar making was over the Harvester commenced his regular
spring work, but his mind was so busy over his paper that he did not
have much time to realize just how badly his heart was beginning to
ache. Neither did he consign so many letters to the fire fairies, for
now he was writing of the best way to dry hydrastis and preserve ginseng
seed. The day before time to start he drove to Onabasha to try on his
clothing and have Mrs. Carey see if he had been right in his selections.

While he was gone, Granny Moreland, wearing a clean calico dress and
carrying a juicy apple pie, came to the stretch of flooded marsh land,
and finding the path under water, followed the road and crossing a
field reached the levee and came to the bridge of Singing Water where it
entered the lake. She rested a few minutes there, and then went to the
cabin shining between bare branches. She opened the front door, entered,
and stood staring around her.

"Why things is all tore up here," she said. "Now ain't that sensible
of David to put everything away and save it nice and careful until his
woman gets back. Seems as if she's good and plenty long coming; seems
as if her folks needs her mighty bad, or she's having a better time than
the boy is or something."

She set the pie on the table, went through the cabin and up the hill
a little distance, calling the Harvester. When she passed the barn
she missed Betsy and the wagon, and then she knew he was in town. She
returned to the living-room and sat looking at the pie as she rested.

"I'd best put you on the kitchen table," she mused. "Likely he will see
you there first and eat you while you are fresh. I'd hate mortal bad for
him to overlook you, and let you get stale, after all the care I've took
with your crust, and all the sugar, cinnamon, and butter that's under
your lid. You're a mighty nice pie, and you ort to be et hot. Now why
under the sun is all them clean letters pitched in the fireplace?"

Granny knelt and selecting one, she blew off the ashes, wiped it with
her apron and read: "To Ruth, in care of the fire fairies."

"What the Sam Hill is the idiot writin' his woman like that for?" cried
Granny, bristling instantly. "A