“'Neath cloistered boughs, each floral bell that swingeth
And tolls its perfume on the passing air,
Makes Sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth
A call to prayer.”
“Beautiful!” said the Girl.
“It's mighty convenient,” explained the Harvester. “By my method, you see, you don't have to wait for your day and hour of worship. Anywhere the blue bell rings its call it is Sunday in the woods and in your heart. After I recite that, I pray my prayer.”
“Go on!” said the Girl. “This is no place to stop.”
“It is always one and the same prayer, and there are only two lines of it,” said the Harvester. “It runs this way—— Let me take your pencil and I will write it for you.”
He bent over her shoulder, and traced these lines on a scrap of the wrapping paper:
“Almighty Evolver of the Universe:
Help me to keep my soul and body clean,
And at all times to do unto others as I would be done by.
Amen.”
The Girl took the slip and sat studying it; then she raised her eyes to his face curiously, but with a tinge of awe in them.
“I can see you standing over a blue, bell-shaped flower reciting those exquisite lines and praying this wonderful prayer,” she said. “Yesterday you allowed the moth you were willing to pay five dollars for a drawing of, to go, because you wouldn't risk breaking its wings. Why you are more like a woman!”
A red stream crimsoned the Harvester's face.