CHAPTER XIII
OLD HOPES AND NEW
Along toward the middle of the summer Carol began eating her meals on the porch with David, and they fixed up a small table with doilies and flowers, and said they were keeping house all over again. Sometimes, when David was sleeping, Carol slipped noiselessly into the room to turn over with loving fingers the soft woolen petticoats, and bandages, and bonnets, and daintily embroidered dresses,—gifts of the women of their church back in the Heights in St. Louis.
About David the doctors had been frank with Carol.
"He may live a long time and be comfortable, and enjoy himself. But he will never be able to do a man's work again."
"Are you sure?" Carol had taken the blow without flinching.
"Oh, yes. There is no doubt about that."
"What shall I do?"
"Just be happy that he is here, and not suffering. Love him, and amuse him, and enjoy him as much as you can. That is all you can do."
"Let's not tell him," she suggested. "It would make him so sorry."