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.”