“I imagine the roses you know go into perfumes mostly,” he answered. “They do make medicine of Canadian rock rose and rose bay, laurel, and willow. I grow the bushes, but they are not what you would consider roses.” “I wonder now,” said the woman studying the Harvester closely, “if you are not that queer genius I've heard of, who spends his time hunting and growing stuff in the woods and people call him the Medicine Man.” “I strongly suspect madam, I am that man,” said the Harvester. “Well bless me!” cried she. “I've always wanted to see you and here when I do, you look just like anybody else. I thought you'd have long hair, and be wild-eyed and ferocious. And your talk sounds like out of a book. Well that beats me!” “Me too!” said the Harvester, lifting his hat. “You don't want any lilies to-morrow, then?” “Yes I do. Medicine or no medicine, I've always liked 'em, and I'm going to keep on liking them. If you can bring me a good-sized bunch after the weak-kneed----” “Weak-hearted,” corrected the Harvester. “Well 'weak-hearted,' then; it's all the same thing. If you've got any left, as I was saying, you can fetch them to me for the smell.” The Harvester laughed all the way down town. There he went to Doctor Carey's office, examined a directory, and got the names of all the numbers where he had sold yellow violets. A few questions when the doctor came in settled all of them, but the flower scheme was better. Because the yellow were not so plentiful as the white and blue, next day he added buttercups and cowslips to his store for the dark girls. When he had rifled his beds for the last time, after three weeks of almost daily trips to town, and had paid high prices to small boys he set searching the adjoining woods until no more flowers could be found, he drove from the outskirts of the city one day toward the hospital, and as he stopped, down the street came Doctor Carey frantically waving to him. As the big car slackened, “Come on David, quick! I've seen her!” cried the doctor. The Harvester jumped from the wagon, threw the lines to Belshazzar, and landed in the panting car. “For Heaven's sake where? Are you sure?” The car went speeding down the street. A policeman beckoned and cried after it. “It won't do any good to get arrested, Doc,” cautioned the Harvester. “Now right along here,” panted Doctor Carey. “Watch both sides sharply. If I stop you jump out, and tell the blame policemen to get at their job. The party they are hired to find is right under their noses.” The Harvester began to perspire. “Doc, don't you think you should tell me? Maybe she is in some store. Maybe I could do better on foot.” “Shut up!” growled the doctor. “I am doing the best I know.” He hurried up the street for blocks and back again, and at last stopped before a large store and went in. When he returned he drove to the hospital and together they entered the office. There he turned to the Harvester.