Carol adroitly changed the subject, and David said no more.

The next day, quite accidentally, she met Mrs. Waldemar on the corner and they had a soda together at the drug store.  That night after prayer-meeting David had to tarry for a deacons’ meeting, and Carol and Mrs. Waldemar sauntered off alone, arm in arm, and waited in Mrs. Waldemar’s hammock until David appeared.

And David did not see anything wonderful in the dark, deep eyes at all,—­they looked downright wicked to him.  He took Carol away hurriedly, and questioned her feverishly to find out if Mrs. Waldemar had put any fresh nonsense into her pretty little head.

Day after day passed by and David began going around the block to avoid Mrs. Waldemar’s hammock.  Her advanced thoughts, expressed to him, old and settled and quite mature, were only amusing.  But when she poured the vials of her emancipation on little, innocent, trusting Carol,—­it was—­well, David called it “pure down meanness.”  She was trying to make his wife dissatisfied with her environment, with her life, with her very husband.  David’s kindly heart swelled with unaccustomed fury.

Carol always assured him that she didn’t believe the things Mrs. Waldemar said,—­it was interesting, that was all, and curious, and gave her new things to think about.  And minister’s families must be broad enough to make Christian allowance for all.

But, curiously enough, she grew genuinely fond of Mrs. Waldemar.  And Mrs. Waldemar, in gratitude for the girlish affection of the little manse lady, left David alone.  But one day she took Carol’s dimpled chin in her hand, and turned the face up that she might look directly into the young blue eyes.

“Carol,” she said, smiling, “you are a girlie, girlie wife, with dimples and curls and all the baby tricks, but you’re a pretty clever little lady at that.  You were not going to let your darling old David get into trouble, were you?  And quite right, my dear, quite right.  And between you and me, I like you far, far better than your husband.”  She smiled the crooked smile and pinched Carol’s crimson cheek.  “The only way to keep hubby out of danger is to tackle it yourself, isn’t it?  Oh, don’t blush,—­I like you all the better for your little trick.”

CHAPTER V

A MINISTER’S SON

“Centerville, Iowa.

“Dear Carol and David: 

“I am getting very, exceptionally wise.  I am really appalled at myself.  It seems so unnecessary in one so young.  You will remember, Carol, that I used to say it was unfair that ministers’ children should be denied so much of the worldly experience that other ordinary humans fall heir to by the natural sequence of things.  I resented the deprivation.  I coveted one taste of every species of sweet, satanic or otherwise.

“I have changed my mind.  I have been convinced that ordinaries may dabble in forbidden fires, and a little cold ointment will banish every trace of the flame, but ministers’ children stay scarred and charred forever.  I have decided to keep far from the worldly blazes and let others supply the fanning breezes.  For you know, Carol, that the wickedest fires in the world would die out if there were not some willing hands to fan them.