"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 our
family?"

"All packed up and ready to start," she said thoughtfully, "and
to-morrow night we leave our darling little manse, and our precious old
mansers and turn cowboy. Aren't you glad you didn't send me home?"