From one end of the box he produced a tin of wafers and from the other a plate. Then he dug into the ice and lifted several different varieties of chilled fruit. From the jug he poured a combination that he made of the juices of oranges, pineapples, and lemons. He set the glass, rapidly frosting in the heat, and the fruit before the Girl. “Now!” he said. For one instant she stared at the table. Then she looked at him and in the depths of her dark eyes was an appeal he never forgot. “I made that drink myself, so it's all right,” he assured her. “There's a pretty stiff touch of pineapple in it, and it cuts the cobwebs on a hot day. Please try it!” “I can't!” cried the Girl with a half-sob. “Think of Aunt Molly!” “Are you fond of her?” “No. I never saw her until a few weeks ago. Since then I've seen nothing save her poor, tired back. She lies in a heap facing the wall. But if she could have things like these, she needn't suffer. And if my mother could have had them she would be living to-day. Oh Man, I can't touch this.” “I see,” said the Harvester. He reached over, picked up the glass, and poured its contents into the jug. He repacked the fruit and closed the wafer box. Then he made a trip to the thicket and came out putting something into his pocket. “Come on!” he said. “We are going to the house.” She stared at him. “I simply don't dare.” “Then I will go alone,” said the Harvester, picking up the bucket and starting. The Girl followed him. “Uncle Henry may come any minute,” she urged. “Well if he comes and acts unpleasantly, he will get what he richly deserves.” “And he will make me pay for it afterward.” “Oh no he won't!” said the Harvester, “because I'll look out for that. This is my lucky day. He isn't going to come.” When he reached the back door he opened it and stepped inside. Of all the barren places of crude, disheartening ugliness the Harvester ever had seen, that was the worst. “I want a glass and a spoon,” he said. The Girl brought them. “Where is she?” “In the next room.” At the sound of their voices a small girl came to the kitchen door. “How do you do?” inquired the Harvester. “Is Mrs. Jameson asleep?” “I don't know,” answered the child. “She just lies there.” The Harvester gave her the glass. “Please fill that with water,” he said. Then he picked up the bucket and went into the front room. When the child came with the water he took a bottle from his pocket, filled the spoon, and handed it to her. “Hold that steadily,” he said. Then he slid his strong hands under the light frame and turned the face of the faded little creature toward him. “I am a Medicine Man, Mrs. Jameson,” he said casually. “I heard you were sick and I came to see if a little of this stuff wouldn't brace you up. Open your lips.”