hank offering, the formula is yours. Test it as you
will. Use it if you find it good. Gentlemen, I thank you!"

Carey sank in his chair and watched the Harvester cross the stage. As
he disappeared the tumult began, and it lasted until the president arose
and brought him back to make another bow, and then they rioted until
they wore themselves out. In an immaculate dress suit the Harvester sat
that night on the right of the gray-haired president and responded to
the toast, "The Harvester of the Woods." Then the reporters carried him
away to be photographed, and to show him the gay sights of New York.

In the train the next day, steadily speeding west, he said to Doctor
Carey: "I feel as the old woman of Mother Goose who said, 'Lawk-a-mercy
on us, can this be really I?'"

"You just bet it is!" cried the doctor. "And you have cut out work for
yourself in good shape."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that this is a beginning. You will be called upon to speak again
and again."

"The point is, do you honestly think I helped any?"

"You did inestimable good. It only can help men to hear plain truth that
is personal experience. As for that dope of yours, it will come closer
raising the dead than anything I ever saw. Next case I see slipping,
after I've done my best, I'm going to try it out for myself."

"All right! 'Phone me and I'll bring some fresh and help you."

At Buffalo the doctor left the car and bought a paper. As he had
expected the portrait and speech of the Harvester were featured. The
reporters had been gracious. They had done all that was just to a great
event, and allowed themselves some latitude. He immediately mailed the
paper to the Girl, and at Cleveland bought another for himself. When
he showed it to the Harvester, as he glanced at it he observed, "Do I
appear like that?" Then he went on talking with a man he had met who
interested him.

CHAPTER XXI. THE COMING OF THE BLUEBIRD

The Harvester stopped at the mail box on his way home and among the mass
of matter it contained was something from the Girl. It was a scrap as
long as his least finger and three times as wide, and by the postmark
it had lain four days in the box. On opening it, he found only her card
with a line written across it, but the man went up the hill and into the
cabin as if a cyclone were driving him, for he read, "Has your bluebird
come?"

He threw his travelling bag on the floor, ran to the telephone, and
called the statio