n. "Take this message," he said. "Mrs. David Langston,
care of Alexander Herron, 5770 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia. Found note
after four days' absence. Bluebird long past due. The fairies have told
it that my fate hereafter lies in your hands.

"As always. David."

The Harvester turned from the instrument and bent to embrace Belshazzar,
leaping in ecstasy beside him.

"Understand that, Bel?" he asked. "I don't know but it means something.
Maybe it doesn't----not a thing! And again, there is a chance----only
the merest possibility----that it does. We'll risk it, Bel, and to
begin on I have nailed it as hard as I knew how. Next, we will clean
the house----until it shines, and then we will fill the cupboard, and if
anything does happen we won't be caught napping. Yes, boy, we will take
the chance! We can't be any worse disappointed than we have been before
and survived it. Come along!"

He picked up the bag and arranged its contents, carefully brushed and
folded on his shelves and in his closet. Then he removed the travelling
suit, donned the old brown clothes and went to the barn to see that his
creatures had been cared for properly. Early the next morning he awoke
and after feeding and breakfasting instead of going to harvest spice
brush and alder he stretched a line and hung the bedding from room after
room to air and sun. He swept, dusted, and washed windows, made beds,
and lastly polished the floors throughout the cabin. He set everything
in order, and as a finishing touch, filled vases, pitchers, and bowls
with the bloom of red bud and silky willow catkins. He searched the
south bank, but there was not a violet, even in the most exposed places.
By night he was tired and a little of the keen edge of his ardour was
dulled. The next day he worked scrubbing the porches, straightening
the lawn and hedges, even sweeping the driveway to the bridge clear
of wind-whirled leaves and straw. He scouted around the dry-house and
laboratory, and spent several extra hours on the barn so that when
evening came everything was in perfect order. Then he dressed, ate his
supper and drove to the city.

He stopped at the mail box, but there was nothing from the Girl. The
Harvester did not know whether he was sorry or glad. A letter might have
said the same thing. Nothing meant a delightful possibility, and between
the two he preferred the latter. He whistled and sang as he drove to
Onabasha, and Belshazzar looked at him with mysti