“Well bless my soul! Do you mean to tell me that lilies of the valley are medicine?”
The Harvester laughed.
“I grow immense beds of them in the woods on the banks of Loon Lake,” he said. “They are the convallaris majallis of the drug houses and I scarcely know what the weak-hearted people would do without them. I use large quantities in trade, and this season I am selling a few because people so love them.”
“Lilies in medicine; well dear me! Are roses good for our innards too?”
Then the Harvester did laugh.
“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?”