Now there are a number of things a man deeply in love can think of to do with a woman's white hand. He can stroke it, press it tenderly, and lay it against his lips and his heart. The Harvester lacked experience in these arts, and yet by some wonderful instinct all of these things occurred to him. There was real colour in the Girl's cheeks by the time he helped her into the cafe'. They were guided to a small room, cool and restful, close a window, beside which grew a tree covered with talking leaves. A waiting attendant, who seemed perfectly adept, brought in steaming bouillon, fragrant tea, broiled chicken, properly cooked vegetables, a wonderful salad, and then delicious ices and cold fruit. The happy Harvester leaned back and watched the Girl daintily manage almost as much food as he wanted to see her eat. When they had finished, “Now we are going home,” he said. “Will you try to like it, Ruth?” “Indeed I will,” she promised. “As soon as I grow accustomed to the dreadful stillness, and learn what things will not bite me, I'll be better.” “I'll have to ask you to wait a minute,” he said. “One thing I forgot. I must hire a man to take Betsy home.” “Aren't you going to drive her yourself?” “No ma'am! We are going in a carriage or a motor,” said the Harvester. “Indeed we are not!” contradicted the Girl. “You have had this all your way so far. I am going home behind Betsy, with Belshazzar at my knee.” “But your dress! People will think I am crazy to put a lovely woman like you in a spring wagon.” “Let them!” said the Girl placidly. “Why should we bother about other people? I am going with Betsy and Belshazzar.” The Harvester had been thinking that he adored her, that it was impossible to love her more, but every minute was proving to him that he was capable of feeling so profound it startled him. To carry the Girl, his bride, through the valley and up the hill in the little spring wagon drawn by Betsy--that would have been his ideal way. But he had supposed that she would be afraid of soiling her dress, and embarrassed to ride in such a conveyance. Instead it was her choice. Yes, he could love her more. Hourly she was proving that. “Come this way a few steps,” he said. “Betsy is here.” The Girl laid her face against the nose of the faithful old animal, and stroked her head and neck. Then she held her skirts and the Harvester helped her into the wagon. She took the seat, and the dog went wild with joy. “Come on, Bel,” she softly commanded. The dog hesitated, and looked at the Harvester for permission. “You may come here and put your head on my knee,” said the Girl. “Belshazzar, you lucky dog, you are privileged to sit there and lay your head on the lady's lap,” said the Harvester, and the dog quivered with joy.