And once in a while, not very often, David would say, smiling, “Who knows, Carol, but you two may some day do the things we two had hoped to do?”

A few weeks later Aunt Grace came out from Mount Mark, and in her usual soft, gentle way drifted into the life of the chasers in the sanatorium.  She told of the home, of William’s work and tireless zeal, of Lark and Jim, of Fairy and Babbie, of Prudence and Jerry.  She talked most of all of Connie.

“That Connie!  She is a whole family all by herself.  She is entirely different from the rest of you.  She is unique.  She doesn’t really live at all, she just looks on.  She watches life with the cool critical eyes of a philosopher and a stoic and an epicure all rolled into one.  She comes, she sees, she draws conclusions.  William and I hold our breath.  She may set the world on fire with her talent, or she may become a demure little old maid crocheting jabots and feeding kittens.  No one can foretell Connie.”

And Carol, in a beautiful, heavenly relief at having this blessed outlet for her pent-up feelings, reclined in a big rocker on the porch, and smiled at Aunt Grace, and glowed at David, and declared the sunny slopes were so brilliant they dazzled her eyes.

There came a day when she packed a suitcase, and petted David a little and gave him very strict instructions as to how he was to conduct himself in her absence, and went away over to the other building, and settled down in a pleasant up-stairs room with Aunt Grace in charge.  For several days she lounged there quietly content, gazing for hours out upon the marvelous mesa land, answering with a cheery wave the gay greetings shouted up to her from chasers loitering beneath her windows.

But one morning, she watched with weary throbbing eyes as Aunt Grace and a nurse and a chamber maid carefully wrapped up a tiny pink flannel roll for a visit to Room Number Six in the McCormick Building.

“Tell him I am just fine, and it is a lucky thing that he likes girls better than boys, and we think she is going to look like me.  And be particularly sure to tell him she is very, very pretty, the doctor and the nurse both say she is,—­David might overlook it if his attention were not especially called to it.”

Three weeks later, the suit-case was packed once more, and Carol was moved back across the grounds to Number Six and David, where already little Julia was in full control.

“Aren’t you glad she is pretty, David?” demanded Carol promptly.  “I was so relieved.  Most of them are so red and frowsy, you know.  I’ve seen lots of new ones in my day, but this is my first experience with a pretty one.”

The doctor and the nurse had the temerity to laugh at that, even with Julia, pink and dimply, right before them.  “Oh, that old, old story,” said the doctor.  “I’m looking for a woman who can class her baby with the others.  I intend to use my fortune erecting a monument to her if I find her,—­but the fortune is safe.  Every woman’s baby is the only pretty one she ever saw in her life.”