“The shadows look pretty dark,” she said, “but the sunny slopes are there all right.  But I was happy at home; I had hopes and plans—­”

“Yes, we all did,” interrupted David quickly.  “We were all happy, and had hopes and plans, and—­ But since we are here and have to stay, isn’t it God’s blessing that there is sunshine for us on the slopes?”

CHAPTER XIII

OLD HOPES AND NEW

Along toward the middle of the summer Carol began eating her meals on the porch with David, and they fixed up a small table with doilies and flowers, and said they were keeping house all over again.  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.

“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.