er, 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. She told of the home, of William's work and tireless zeal,
of Lark and Jim, of Fairy and Babbie, of Prudence and Jerry. She
talked most of all of Connie.

"That Connie! She is a whole family all by herself. She is entirely
different from the rest of you. She is unique. She doesn't really
live at all, she just looks on. She watches life with the cool
critical eyes of a philosopher and a stoic and an epicure all rolled
into one. She comes, she sees, she draws conclusions. William and I
hold our breath. She may set the world on fire with her talent, or she
may become a demure little old maid crocheting jabots and feeding
kittens. No one can foretell Connie."

And Carol, in a beautiful, heavenly relief at having this blessed
outlet for her pent-up feelings, reclined in a big rocker on the porch,
and smiled at Aunt Grace, and glowed at David, and declared the sunny
slopes were so brilliant they dazzled her eyes.

There came a day when she packed a suitcase, and petted David a little
and gave him very strict instructions as to how he was to conduct
himself in her absence, and went away over to the other building, and
settled down in a pleasant up-stairs room with Aunt Grace in charge.
For several days she lounged there quietly content, gazing for hours
out upon the marvelous mesa land, answering with a cheery wave the gay
greetings shouted up to her from chasers loitering beneath her windows.

But one morning,