“With the furniture money we have six hundred dollars,” she told them, rather proudly.

“That’s just fine.  It will take you to Albuquerque and keep you straight for a few months, and by that time we’ll have things in hand back here.  You know, Mrs. Duke, you and David belong to us and we are going to see you through.  And then when it is all over we’ll get him a church out there,—­why, everything is going splendidly.  Now remember, it may be a few months, or it may be ten years, but we are back of you and we are going to see you through.  Don’t ever wonder where next month’s board is to come from.  It will come.  It isn’t charity, Mrs. Duke.  It is just the big brotherhood of the church, that’s all.  We are going to be your brothers, and fathers, and—­mothers, too, if you will have us.”

The devoted mansers rallied around them, weeping over them, giving them good advice along with other more material, but not more helpful, assistance and declaring they always knew David was too good to live.  And when Carol resentfully assured them that David was still very much alive, and maybe wasn’t as good as they thought, they retaliated by suggesting that her life was in no danger on that score.

On the occasion of Doctor O’Hara’s last visit, Carol followed him out to the porch.

“You haven’t presented your bill,” she reminded him.  “And it’s a good thing for you we are preachers or we might have slipped away in the night.”

“I haven’t any bill against you,” he said, smiling kindly down at her.

Carol flushed.  “Doctor,” she protested.  “We expected to pay you.  We have the money.  We don’t want you to think we can’t afford it.  We knew you were an expensive doctor, but we wanted you anyhow.”

He smiled again.  “I know you have the money, but, my dear little girl, you are going to need every cent of it and more too before you get rid of this specter.  But I couldn’t charge David anything if he were a millionaire.  Don’t you understand,—­this is the only way we doctors have of showing what we think of the big work these preachers are doing here and there around the country?”

“But, doctor,” said Carol confusedly, “we are—­Presbyterians, you know—­we are Protestants.”

The doctor laughed.  “And I am a Catholic.  But what is your point?  David is doing good work, not my kind perhaps, and not my way, but I hope, my dear, we are big enough and broad enough to take off our hats to a good worker whether he does things just our way or not.”

Carol looked abashed.  She caught her under lip between her teeth and kept her eyes upon the floor for a moment.  Finally she faced him bravely.

“I wasn’t big or broad,—­not even a little teensy bit,” she said honestly.  “I was a little, shut-in, self-centered goose.  But I believe I am learning things now.  You are grand,” she said, holding out her slender hand.

The doctor took it in his.  “Carol, don’t forget to laugh when you get to Albuquerque.  You will be sick, and sorry, and there will be sobs in your heart, and your soul will cry aloud, but—­keep laughing, for David is going to need it.”