The heavy yoke,—­the yoke of dead routine,—­dogs the footsteps of every minister, and even more, of every minister’s wife.  But Carol thought of the folks that fitted into the cogs of the routine to drive it round and round,—­the teachers, the doctors’ wives, the free-thinkers, the mothers, the professional women, the cynics, the pillars of the church,—­and thinking of the folks, she forgot the routine.  And so to her, routine could never prove a clog, stagnation.  Every meeting brought her a fresh revelation, they amused her, those people, they puzzled her, sometimes they made her sad and frightened her, as they taught her facts of life they had gleaned from wide experience and often in bitter tears.  Still, they were folks, and Carol had always had a passion for people.

David worked too hard.  It was positively wicked for any human being to work as he did, and she scolded him roundly, and even went so far as to shake him, and then kissed him a dozen times to prove how very angry she was at him for abusing himself so shamefully.

David did work hard, as hard as every young minister must work to get things going right, to make his labor count.  His face, always thin, was leaner, more intense than ever.  His eyes were clear, far-seeing.  The whiteness of his skin, amounting almost to pallor, gave him that suggestion of spirituality not infrequently seen in men of passionate consecration to a high ideal.  The few graying hairs at his temples, and even the half-droop of his shoulders, added to his scholarly appearance, and Carol was firmly convinced that he was the finest-looking man in all St. Louis, and every place else for that matter.

The mad little mission, so-called because of the riotous nature of the meetings held there, was in a most flourishing condition.  Everything was going beautifully for the little church in the Heights, and in their gratitude, and their happiness, Carol and David worked harder than ever,—­and mutually scolded each other for the folly of it.

“I tell you this, David Arnold Duke,” Carol told him sternly, “if you don’t do something to that cold so you can preach without coughing, I shall do the preaching myself, and then where would you be?”

“Without a job, of course,” he answered.  “But you wouldn’t do it.  The wind has chafed your darling complexion, and you wouldn’t go into the pulpit with a rough face.  Your devotion to your beauty saves me.”

“All very well, but maybe you think a cold-sermon is effective.”  Carol stood up and lifted her hand impressively.  “My dear brothers and sisters,—­hem-ah-hem-h-hh-em,—­let us unite in reading the—­ah-huh-huh-huh.  Let us sing—­h-h-h-h-hem—­well, let us unite in prayer then—­ah-chooo! ah-choooooo!”

“Where did you put those cough-drops?” he demanded.  “But even at that it is better than you would do.  ’Just as soon as I powder my face we will unite in singing hymn one hundred thirty-six.  Oh, excuse me a minute,—­I believe I feel a cold-sore coming,—­I have a mirror right here, and it won’t take a minute.  Now, I am ready.  Let us arise and sing,—­but since I can not sing I will just polish my nails while the rest of you do it.  Ready, go!’”