Sometimes,
when David was sleeping, Carol slipped noiselessly into the room to
turn over with loving fingers the soft woolen petticoats, and bandages,
and bonnets, and daintily embroidered dresses,--gifts of the women of
their church back in the Heights in St. Louis.
About David the doctors had been frank with Carol.
"He may live a long time and be comfortable, and enjoy himself. But he
will never be able to do a man's work again."
"Are you sure?" Carol had taken the blow without flinching.
"Oh, yes. There is no doubt about that."
"What shall I do?"
"Just be happy that he is here, and not suffering. Love him, and amuse
him, and enjoy him as much as you can. That is all you can do."
"Let's not tell him," she suggested. "It would make him so sorry."
"That is a good idea. Keep him in the dark. It is lots easier to be
happy when hope goes with it."
But long before this, David had looked his future in the face. "I have
been set aside for good," he thought. "I know it, I feel it. But
Carol is so sure I will be well again! She shall never know the truth
from me."
When Carol intensely told him he was stronger, he agreed promptly, and
said he thought so, himself.
"Oh, blessed old David, I'm so glad you don't know about it," thought
Carol.
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