THE SECOND STEP
They sat on canvas chairs on the sand outside the porch of the
sanatorium, warmly wrapped in rugs, for the summer evenings in New
Mexico are cold, and watched the shadows of evening tarnish the gold of
the mesa. Like children, they held hands under the protecting shelter
of the rug. They talked of little Julia off in Mount Mark, how she was
growing, the color of her eyes, the shape of her fingers. They talked
of her possible talents, and how they could best be developed, judging
as well as they could in advance by the assembled qualities of all her
relatives. David suggested that they might be prejudiced in her favor
a little, for as far as they could determine there was no avenue of
ability closed to her, but Carol stanchly refused to admit the
impeachment. They talked of the schools best qualified to train her,
of the teachers she must have, of the ministers they must demand for
her spiritual guidance. They talked of the thousand bad habits of
other little girls, and planned how Julia should be led surely, sweetly
by them.
Then they were silent, thinking of the little pink rosebud baby as she
had left them.
The darkness swept down from the mountains almost as sand-storms come,
and Carol leaned her head against David's shoulder. She was happy.
David was so much better. The horrible temperature was below
ninety-nine at last, and David was allowed to walk about the mesa, and
his appetite was ravenous. Maybe the doctors were wrong after all. He
was certainly on the high-road to health now. She was so glad David
had not known how near the dark valley he had passed.
David was rejoicing that he had never told Carol how really ill he had
been. She would have been so frightened and sorry. He pictured Carol
with the light dying out in her eyes, with pallor eating the roses in
her cheeks, with languor in her step, and dullness in her voice,--the
Carol she would surely have been had she known that David was walking
under the shadow of death. David was very happy. He was so much
better, of course he would soon be himself. Things looked very bright.
Somehow to-night he did not yearn so much for work. It was Carol that
counted most, Carol and the little Julia who was theirs, and would some
day be with them. The big thing now was getting Julia ready for the
life that was to come to her.
He was richly satisfied.
"Carol, this is the most wonderful thing in the world, companionship
like this, being together, thinking in harmony, hoping the same hopes,
sharing the same worries, planning the same future. Companionship is
life to me now. There is nothing like it in all the world."
Carol snuggled against his shoulder happily.
"Love is wonderful," he went on, "but companionship is broader, for it
is love, and more beyond. It is the development of love. It is the
full blossom of the seed that has been planted in the heart. Service
is splendid, too. But after all, it takes companionship to perfect
service. One can not work alone. You are the completion of my desire
to work, and you are the inspiration of my ability to work. Yes,
companionship is life,--bigger than love and bigger than service, for
companionship includes them both."