“Well heretofore I have been considered strictly masculine,” he said. “To appreciate beauty or to try to be just commonly decent is not exclusively feminine. You must remember there are painters, poets, musicians, workers in art along almost any line you could mention, and no one calls them feminine, but there is one good thing if I am. You need no longer fear me. If you should see me, muck covered, grubbing in the earth or on a raft washing roots in the lake, you would not consider me like a woman.”
“Would it be any discredit if I did? I think not. I merely meant that most men would not see or hear the blue bell at all——and as for the poem and prayer! If the woods make a man with such fibre in his soul, I must learn them if they half kill me.”
“You harp on death. Try to forget the word.”
“I have faced it for months, and seen it do its grinding worst very recently to the only thing on earth I loved or that loved me. I have no desire to forget! Tell me more about the plants.”
“Forgive me,” said the Harvester gently. “Just now I am collecting catnip for the infant and nervous people, hoarhound for colds and dyspepsia, boneset heads and flowers for the same purpose. There is a heavy head of white bloom with wonderful lacy leaves, called yarrow. I take the entire plant for a tonic and blessed thistle leaves and flowers for the same purpose.”
“That must be what I need,” interrupted the Girl. “Half the time I believe I have a little fever, but I couldn't have dyspepsia, because I never want anything to eat; perhaps the tonic would make me hungry.”
“Promise me you will tell that to the doctor who comes to see your aunt, and take what he gives you.”
“No doctor comes to see my aunt. She is merely playing lazy to get out of work. There is nothing the matter with her.”
“Then why——”
“My uncle says that. Really, she could not stand and walk across a room alone. She is simply worn out.”