He turned to the dressing table and taking a notebook from his pocket made this list: Rugs for bed and bath room. Mattresses, pillows and bedding, Dresses for all occasions. All kinds of shoes and overshoes. “There are gloves, too!” exclaimed the Harvester. “She has to have some, but how am I going to know what is right? Oh, but she needs shoes! High, low, slippers, everything! I wonder what that clerk wears. I don't believe shoes would be comfortable without being fitted, or at least the proper size. I wonder what kind of dresses she likes. I hope she's fond of white. A woman always appears loveliest in that. Maybe I'd better buy what I'm sure of and let her select the dresses. But I'd love to have this room crammed with girl-fixings when she comes. Doesn't seem as if she ever has had any little luxuries. I can't miss it on anything a woman uses. Let me think!” Slowly he wrote again: Parasols. Fans. Veils. Hats. “I never can get them! I think that will keep me busy for a few days,” said the Harvester as he closed the door softly, and went to look at the pupae cases. Then he carved on the vine of the candlestick for her dressing table; with one arm around Belshazzar, re-read the story of John Muir's dog, went into the lake, and to bed. Just as he was becoming unconscious the beast lifted an inquiring head and gazed at the man. “More 'fraid of cow,” the Harvester was muttering in a sleepy chuckle. CHAPTER XI. DEMONSTRATED COURTSHIP When the Harvester saw the Girl coming toward the woods, he spread the rug, opened and placed the table and chair, laid out the colour box, and another containing the last luna. “Did the green one come out?” she asked, touching the box lightly. “It did!” said the Harvester proudly, as if he were responsible for the performance. “It is an omen! It means that I am to have my long-coveted pattern for my best candlestick. It also clearly indicates that the gods of luck are with me for the day, and I get my way about everything. There won't be the least use in your asking 'why' or interposing objections. This is my clean sweep. I shall be fearfully dictatorial and you must submit, because the fates have pointed out that they favour me to-day, and if you go contrary to their decrees you will have a bad time.” The Girl's smile was a little wan. She sank on a chair and picked up a pencil. “Lay that down!” cried the Harvester. “You haven't had permission from the Dictator to begin drawing. You are to sit and rest a long time.” “Please may I speak?” asked the Girl. The Harvester grew foolishly happy. Was she really going to play the game? Of course he had hoped, but it was a hope without any foundation. “You may,” he said soberly.