It was Sunday night in mid-winter. After church, David remained for a trustees' meeting, and Carol walked home with some of the younger ones of the congregation. When they asked if she wished them to wait with her for David she shook her head, smiling gratefully but with weariness.
"No, thank you. I am going right straight to bed. I am tired."
Into the little manse she crept, sinking into the first easy chair that presented itself. With slow listless fingers she removed her wraps, dropping them on the floor beside her,—laboriously unbuttoned and removed her shoes, and in the same lifeless manner loosened her dress and took the pins from her hair. Then, holding her garments about her, she went in search of night dress, slippers and negligee. A few seconds later she returned and curled herself up with some cushions on the floor before the fireplace.
"Ought to make some coffee,—David's so hungry after church,—too—dead—tired—Ummmmm." Her voice trailed off into a murmur and she closed her eyes.
David found her so, soundly sleeping, her hair curling about her face. He knelt down and kissed her. She opened one eye.
"Coffee?" she queried automatically.
"I should say not. Go to bed." He sprawled full length on the floor, his head against her arm.
"Worn out, aren't you, David?"
"Well, I'm ready for bed; Such a day! Did you have time for Mrs. Garder before Endeavor?"
"Yes, she knew me too. I am glad I went. She had been waiting for me. They say it is only a few days now. The way of a minister's wife is hard sometimes. She wanted me to sing Lead Kindly Light, and was so puzzled and confused when I insisted I couldn't sing. She thought ministers' wives always sang. I know she is disappointed in me now. If the Lord foreknew that I was going to marry a minister, why didn't He foreordain that I should sing?"