they retaliated by
suggesting that her life was in no danger on that score.

On the occasion of Doctor O'Hara's last visit, Carol followed him out
to the porch.

"You haven't presented your bill," she reminded him. "And it's a good
thing for you we are preachers or we might have slipped away in the
night."

"I haven't any bill against you," he said, smiling kindly down at her.

Carol flushed. "Doctor," she protested. "We expected to pay you. We
have the money. We don't want you to think we can't afford it. We
knew you were an expensive doctor, but we wanted you anyhow."

He smiled again. "I know you have the money, but, my dear little girl,
you are going to need every cent of it and more too before you get rid
of this specter. But I couldn't charge David anything if he were a
millionaire. Don't you understand,--this is the only way we doctors
have of showing what we think of the big work these preachers are doing
here and there around the country?"

"But, doctor," said Carol confusedly, "we are--Presbyterians, you
know--we are Protestants."

The doctor laughed. "And I am a Catholic. But what is your point?
David is doing good work, not my kind perhaps, and not my way, but I
hope, my dear, we are big enough and broad enough to take off our hats
to a good worker whether he does things just our way or not."

Carol looked abashed. She caught her under lip between her teeth and
kept her eyes upon the floor for a moment. Finally she faced him
bravely.

"I wasn't big or broad,--not even a little teensy bit," she said
honestly. "I was a little, shut-in, self-centered goose. But I
believe I am learning things now. You are grand," she said, holding
out her slender hand.

The doctor took it in his. "Carol, don't forget to laugh when you get
to Albuquerque. You will be sick, and sorry, and there will be sobs in
your heart, and your soul will cry aloud, but--keep laughing, for David
is going to need it."

Carol went directly to her husband.

"David, I am learning lots of perfectly wonderful things. If I live to
be a thousand years old,--oh, David, I believe by that time I can love
everybody on earth, and have sympathy for all and condemnation for
none; and I will really know that nearly every one in the world is
_very good_, and those that are not are _pretty_ good."

David burst into laughter at her words. "Poorly expressed, but finely
meant," he cried. "Are you trying to become the preacher in