"My sweet little Carol, I hope you never find out until it is over,"
thought David.
Sometimes Carol stood at the window when David was sleeping, and looked
out over the long mesa to the mountains. Her gaze rested on the dark
heavy shadows of the canyons. To her, those dark valleys in the
mountains represented a buried vision,--the vision of David strong and
sturdy again, springing lightly across a tennis court, walking briskly
through mud and snow to conduct a little mission in the Hollow,
standing tall and straight and sunburned in the pulpit swaying the
people with his fervor. It was a buried hope, a shadowy canyon. Then
she looked up to the sunny slopes, stretching bright and golden above
the shadows up to the snowy crest of the mountain peaks. Sunny
slopes,--a new hope rising out of the old and towering above it. And
then she always went back to the chest in the corner of the room and
fingered the tiny garments, waiting there for service, with tender
fingers.
And once in a while, not very often, David would say, smiling, "Who
knows, Carol, but you two may some day do the things we two had hoped
to do?"
A few weeks later Aunt Grace came out from Mount Mark, and in her usual
soft, gentle way drifted into the life of the chasers in the
sanatorium.
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