“The one she likes best,” said the lady promptly.
“And the other is your mother, no doubt. What a girlish, beautiful face!”
“Wonderfully fine!” growled a gruff old voice tinctured with tears, and the Harvester began to see light.
The old man arose. “Ruthie, help your grandmother to bed,” he said. “And you, sir, have the goodness to walk a few steps with me.”
The Harvester sprang up and brought Mr. Herron his coat and hat and held the door. The Girl brushed past him.
“To the oak,” she whispered.
They went into the night, and without a word the Harvester took his guest's arm and guided him up the hill. When they reached the two mounds the moon shining between the branches touched the lily faces with with holy whiteness.
“She sleeps there,” said the Harvester, indicating the place.
Then he turned and went down the path a little distance and waited until he feared the night air would chill the broken old man.
“You can see better to-morrow,” he said as he touched the shaking figure and assisted it to arise.