David worked too hard. It was positively wicked for any human being to
work as he did, and she scolded him roundly, and even went so far as to
shake him, and then kissed him a dozen times to prove how very angry
she was at him for abusing himself so shamefully.

David did work hard, as hard as every young minister must work to get
things going right, to make his labor count. His face, always thin,
was leaner, more intense than ever. His eyes were clear, far-seeing.
The whiteness of his skin, amounting almost to pallor, gave him that
suggestion of spirituality not infrequently seen in men of passionate
consecration to a high ideal. The few graying hairs at his temples,
and even the half-droop of his shoulders, added to his scholarly
appearance, and Carol was firmly convinced that he was the
finest-looking man in all St. Louis, and every place else for that
matter.

The mad little mission, so-called because of the riotous nature of the
meetings held there, was in a most flourishing condition. Everything
was going beautifully for the little church in the Heights, and in
their gratitude, and their happiness, Carol and David worked harder
than ever,--and mutually scolded each other for the folly of it.

"I tell you this, David Arnold Duke," Carol told him sternly, "if you
don't do something to that cold so you can preach without coughing, I
shall do the preaching myself, and then where would you be?"

"Without a job, of course," he answered. "But you wouldn't do it. The
wind has chafed your darling complexion, and you wouldn't go into the
pulpit with a rough face. Your devotion to your beauty saves me."