Up the hill ranged the Harvester, through the forest where the squirrels slept, the owl hunted, the fire-flies flickered, the fairies squeezed flower leaves to make colour to paint the autumn foliage, and danced on toadstool platforms.

Just so long as his voice murmured and his touch continued, so long the Girl lay quietly, and the medicines could act.

But no other touch would serve, and no other voice would answer.

If the harvester left the room five minutes to show the nurse how to light the fire, and where to find things, he returned to tossing, restless delirium.
"It's magic David," said Doctor Carey.

"Magic!" "It is love," said the Harvester.