The Harvester crushed the Girl in his arms and shuddering sobs shook his big frame, and choked his voice.
"Ruth, for God's sake, be quiet!" he cried. "Why I'd be glad to! I'll go anywhere you tell me, and bring her, and she shall rest where the lake murmurs, the trees shelter, the winds sing, and earth knows the sun only in long rays of gold light."
She stared at him with strained face.
"You----you wouldn't!" she breathed.
"Ruth, child," said the Harvester, "I tell you I'd be happy. Look at my side of this! I'm in search of bands to bind you to me and to this place. Could you tell me a stronger than to have the mother you idolized lie here for her long sleep? Why Girl, you can't know the deep and abiding joy it would give me to bring her. I'd feel I had you almost secure. Where is she Ruth?"
"In that old unkept cemetery south of Onabasha, where it costs no money to lay away your loved ones."
"Close here! Why I'll go to-morrow! I supposed she was in the city."
She straightened and drew away from him.
"How could I? I had nothing. I could not have paid even her fare and brought her here in the cheapest box the decency of man would allow him to make if her doctor had not given me the money I owe. Now do you understand why I must earn and pay it myself?
Save for him, it was charity or her delicate body to horrors. Money never can repay him."
"Ruth, the day you came to Onabasha was she with you?"
"In the express car," said the Girl.
"Where did you go when you left the train shed?"
"Straight to the baggage room, where Uncle Henry was waiting. Men brought and put her in his wagon, and he drove with me to the place and other men lowered her, and that was all."
"You poor Girl!" cried the Harvester. "This time to-morrow night she shall sleep in luxury under this oak, so help me God! Ruth, can you spare me? May Igo at once? I can't rest, myself."
"You will?" cried the Girl. "You will?"
She was laughing in the moonlight. "Oh Man, Ican't ever, ever tell you!"
"Don't try," said the Harvester. "Call it settled.
I will start early in the morning. I know that little cemetery. The man whose land it is on can point me the spot. She is probably the last one laid there. Come now, Ruth. Go to the room I made for you, and sleep deeply and in peace. Will you try to rest?"
"Oh David!" she exulted. "Only think! Here where it's clean and cool; beside the lake, where leaves fall gently and I can come and sit close to her and bring flowers; and she never will be alone, for your dear mother is here. Oh David!"
"It is better. I can't thank you enough for thinking of it. Come now, let me help you."
He half carried her down the hill. Then he made the cabin a glamour of light by putting candles in the sticks he had carved and placing them everywhere.
"There is a lighting plant in the basement," he said, "but I had not expected to use it until winter, and Ihave no acetylene. Candles were our grandmothers' lights and they are the best anyway. Go bathe your face, Ruth, and wash away all trace of tears. Put on the pink powder, and in a few weeks you will have colour to outdo the wildest rose. You must be as gay as you can the remainder of this night."
"I will!" cried the Girl. "I will! Oh I didn't know a thing on earth could make me happy! I didn't know I really could be glad. Oh if the ice in my heart would melt, and the wall break down, and the girlhood I've never known would come yet! Oh David, if it would!"
"Before the Lord it shall!" vowed the Harvester.
