“Drop that!” commanded the Harvester. “That's a very unhealthful proceeding. Wait a minute.”
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.