Neither did he consign so many letters to the fire fairies, for now he was writing of the best way to dry hydrastis and preserve ginseng seed. The day before time to start he drove to Onabasha to try on his clothing and have Mrs.
Carey see if he had been right in his selections.
While he was gone, Granny Moreland, wearing a clean calico dress and carrying a juicy apple pie, came to the stretch of flooded marsh land, and finding the path under water, followed the road and crossing a field reached the levee and came to the bridge of Singing Water where it entered the lake. She rested a few minutes there, and then went to the cabin shining between bare branches.
She opened the front door, entered, and stood staring around her.
"Why things is all tore up here," she said. "Now ain't that sensible of David to put everything away and save it nice and careful until his woman gets back. Seems as if she's good and plenty long coming; seems as if her folks needs her mighty bad, or she's having a better time than the boy is or something."
She set the pie on the table, went through the cabin and up the hill a little distance, calling the Harvester.
When she passed the barn she missed Betsy and the wagon, and then she knew he was in town. She returned to the living-room and sat looking at the pie as she rested.
"I'd best put you on the kitchen table," she mused.
"Likely he will see you there first and eat you while you are fresh. I'd hate mortal bad for him to overlook you, and let you get stale, after all the care I've took with your crust, and all the sugar, cinnamon, and butter that's under your lid. You're a mighty nice pie, and you ort to be et hot. Now why under the sun is all them clean letters pitched in the fireplace?"
Granny knelt and selecting one, she blew off the ashes, wiped it with her apron and read: "To Ruth, in care of the fire fairies."
"What the Sam Hill is the idiot writin' his woman like that for?" cried Granny, bristling instantly. "And why is he puttin' pages and pages of good reading like this must have in it in care of the fire fairies? Too much alone, I guess! He's going wrong in his head.
Nobody at themselves would do sech a fool trick as this.
I believe I had better do something. Of course I had!
These is writ to Ruth; she ort to have them. Wish't I knowed how she gets her mail, I'd send her some.
Mebby three! I'd send a fat and a lean, and a middlin' so's that she'd have a sample of all the kinds they is.
It's no way to write letters and pitch them in the ashes.
It means the poor boy is honin' to say things he dassent and so he's writin' them out and never sendin' them at all. What's the little huzzy gone so long for, anyway? I'll fix her!"
Granny selected three letters, blew away the ashes, and tucked the envelopes inside her dress.
"If I only knowed how to get at her," she muttered.
She stared at the pie. "I guess you got to go back," she said, "and be et by me. Like as not I'll stall myself, for I got one a-ready. But if David has got these fool things counted and misses any, and then finds that pie here, he'll s'picion me. Yes, I got to take you back, and hurry my stumps at that."
Granny arose with the pie, cast a lingering and covetous glance at the fireplace, stooped and took another letter, and then started down the drive. Just as she reached the bridge she looked ahead and saw the Harvester coming up the levee. Instantly she shot the pie over the railing and with a groan watched it strike the water and disappear.
"Lord of love!" she gasped, sinking to the seat, "that was one of grandmother's willer plates that I promised Ruth. 'Tain't likely I'll ever see hide ner hair of it again.
But they wa'ant no place to put it, and I dassent let him know I'd been up to the cabin. Mebby I can fetch a boy some day and hire him to dive for it. How long can a plate be in water and not get spiled anyway?
Now what'll I do? My head's all in a whirl! I'll bet my bosom is a sticking out with his letters 'til he'll notice and take them from me."
She gripped her hands across her chest and sat staring at the Harvester as he stopped on the bridge, and seeing her attitude and distressed face, he sprang from the wagon.
"Why Granny, are you sick?" he cried anxiously.
"Yes!" gasped Granny Moreland. "Yes, David, Iam! I'm a miserable woman. I never was in sech a shape in all my days."
"Let me help you to the cabin, and I'll see what Ican do for you," offered the Harvester.
"No. This is jest out of your reach," said the old lady. "I want----I want to see Doctor Carey bad."
"Are you strong enough to ride in or shall I bring him?"
"I can go! I can go as well as not, David, if you'll take me."
"Let me run Betsy to the barn and get the Girl's phaeton. The wagon is too rough for you. Are the pains in your chest dreadful?"
"I don't know how to describe them," said Granny with perfect truth.
The Harvester leaped into the wagon and caught up the lines. As he disappeared around the curve of the driveway Granny snatched the letters from her dress front and thrust them deep into one of her stockings.
"Now, drat you!" she cried. "Stick out all you please.
Nobody will see you there."
In a few minutes the Harvester helped her into the carriage and drove rapidly toward the city.
"You needn't strain your critter," said Granny. "It's not so bad as that, David."
"Is your chest any better?"
"A sight better," said Granny. "Shakin' up a little 'pears to do me good."
"You never should have tried to walk. Suppose Ihadn't been here. And you came the long way, too!
I'll have a telephone run to your house so you can call me after this."
Granny sat very straight suddenly.
"My! wouldn't that get away with some of my foxy neighbours," she said. "Me to have a 'phone like they do, an' be conversin' at all hours of the day with my son's folks and everybody. I'd be tickled to pieces, David."
"Then I'll never dare do it," said the Harvester, "because I can't keep house without you."
"Where's your own woman?" promptly inquired Granny.
"She can't leave her people. Her grandmother is sick."
"Grandmother your foot!" cried the old woman.
