“No,” said the Girl. “I've suffered and made others trouble. I won't bother you by asking for anything more than is brought me. This is different. You are completely worn out. Your face frightens me, David, and white hairs that were not there a few days ago have come along your temples. I can see them.”
“You gave me a mighty serious scare, Ruth.”
“I know,” said the Girl. “Forgive me. I didn't mean to. I want you to leave me to Doctor Harmon and the nurse and go sleep a week. Then I will be ready for the swing, and to hear some more about the trees and birds.”
“I can keep it up if you really need me, but if you don't I am sleepy. So, if you feel safe, I think I will go.”
“Oh I am safe enough,” said the Girl. “It isn't that. I'm so lonely. I've made up my mind not to grieve for mother, but I miss her so now. I feel so friendless.”
“But, honey,” said the Harvester, “you mustn't do that! Don't you see how all of us love you? Here is Granny shutting up her house and living here, just to be with you. The nurse will do anything you say. Here is the man you know best, and think so much of, staying in the cabin, and so happy to give you all his time, and anything else you will have, dear. And the Careys come every day, and will do their best to comfort you, and always I am here for you to fall back on.”
“Yes, I'm falling right now,” said the Girl. “I almost wish I had the fever again. No one has touched me for days. I feel as if every one was afraid of me.”
The Harvester was puzzled.
“Well, Ruth, I'm doing the best I know,” he said. “What is it you want?”
“Nothing!” answered the Girl with slightly dejected inflection. “Say good-bye to me, and go sleep your week. I'll be very good, and then you shall take me a drive up the hill when you awaken. Won't that be fine?”