CHAPTER XXVI

My presence shall go with thee, and I will give thee rest.

It almost startled him, so well did it seem to suit his need. He read on a few verses:

And he said unto him, If thy presence go not with me, carry us not up hence. For wherein shall it be known that I and my people have found grace in thy sight? Is it not in that thou goest with us? So shall we be separated, I and my people, from all the people that are upon the face of the earth.

Wonderful words those, implying a close relationship that shut out to a certain extent all others who were not one with that Presence. He wished he knew what it all meant! And in that moment was born within him a desire to understand the Bible and know how believing scholars explained everything.

But as he went from the room and on his way, he felt that to some extent he had a solution of his trouble. He was to be under the personal conduct of the Presence of God wherever he went, whatever he did! This was to make life less complex, and in some mysterious way the power of the Christ with him was to be made manifest to others. Surely he might trust this in the case of Gila, and feel sure that he would be guided aright; that she would come to see for herself how there was with him always this guiding power. Surely she would come to know it and love it also.

Gila met him with fluttering delight, poutingly reproaching him for not writing oftener, calling him to order for looking solemn, adoringly pretty herself in alittle frilly pink frock that gave her the look of a pale anemone, wind-blown and sweet and wild.

She talked a good deal about the "dandy times" she had had and the "perfectly peachy" men and girls she had met; flattered him by saying she had seen none handsomer or more distinguished than he was. She accepted as a matter of course the lover-like attitude he adopted, let him tell her of his love as long as he was not too solemn about it, teased and played with him, charmed him with every art she knew, dancing from one mood to another like a sprite, winding her gossamer chains about him more and more, until, when he went from her again, he was fairly intoxicated with her beauty.

He had lulled his anxiety with the thought that he must wait and be patient until Gila saw. But more and more was it growing hard to approach her about the things that were of most moment to him. Sometimes when he was wearily trying to find a way back from the froth of her conversation to the real things he hoped she would enjoy with him some day, she would call him an old crab, and summon to her side other willing youths to stimulate his jealousy; youths of sometimes unsavory reputation whose presence gave him deep anxiety for her. Then he would tell himself he must be more patient, that she was young and must learn to understand little by little.

Gila developed a great interest in Courtland's future, his plans for a career, of which she chattered to him much and often, suggesting ways in which her father might perhaps help him into a position of prominence and power in the political world. But Courtland, with a shadow of trouble in his eyes, always put her off. He admitted that he had thought of politics, but was not ready yet to say what he would do.

So spring came on, with its final examinations, and Commencement drawing nearer every day.

Through it all Courtland found much time to be with Gila; often in company, or flashing through a crowded thoroughfare by her side; following her fancy; excusing her follies; laying her mistakes and indiscretions to her youth and innocence; always trying to lead up to his great desire, that she might see his Christ.

Tennelly watched the whole performance anxiously. He wanted Courtland to be drawn out of what he considered his "morbid" state, but not at the price of his peace of mind. He was very sure that Courtland ought not to marry Gila. He was equally sure that she meant nothing serious in her present relation to Courtland. He felt himself responsible in a way because he had agreed in the plot with his uncle to start her on this campaign. But if Courtland should come out of it with a broken heart, what then?

It was just a week before Commencement that the crisis came.

Gila had summoned Courtland to her.

Gila, in her most imperial mood, wearing a bewildering imported frock whose simple intricacies and daring contrasts were well calculated to upbear a determined spirit in a supreme combat, awaited his coming impatiently. She knew that he had that day received another offer from Ramsey Thomas, tempting in the extreme, and baited with alluring possibilities that certainly were dazzling to her if they were not to her lover. She meant to make him tell her of the offer, and she meant to make him accept it that very afternoon and clinch the contract by telephoning the acceptance to the telegraph-office before he left her home.

Courtland was tired. He had been through a hardweek of examinations, he had been on several committees, and had a number of important class meetings, and the like. There had been functions galore to attend, and late hours that were unavoidable. He had come to her hoping for a rest and the joy of her society. Just to watch her dainty grace as she moved about a room, handling the tea things and giving him a delicate sandwich or a crisp cake, filled him with joy and soothed his troubled spirit; it was so like his ideal of what a woman should be.

But Gila was not handing out tea that afternoon. She had other fish to fry, and she went at her business with a determination that very soon showed him there was no rest to be had there.

Very prettily, but quite efficiently, she bored him for information about his plans. Had he no plans whatever about what he was going to do as soon as he had finished college? Of course she knew he had money of his own (he had never told her how much, and there hadn't really been any way of asking a man like Courtland when he didn't choose to tell a thing like that), but nowadays that was nothing. Even rich men all didsomething. One wasn't anything unless one was in something big! Hadn't he ever had any offers at all? It was queer, such a brilliant man as he was. She knew lots of young fellows who had no end of chances to get into big things as soon as they were done with their education. Didn't his father know of something, or have something in mind for him? Hadn't he ever been approached?

Goaded at last by her delicate but determined insinuations, Courtland told her. Yes, he had had offers; one in particular that was a fine thing from a worldly point of view, but he didn't intend to take it. It did not fit with his ideal of life. There were things aboutit that were not square. He wasn't quite sure how his his own plans were going to work out yet. He must have a talk with his father first. Possibly he would study awhile longer somewhere.

Gila frowned. She had no idea of letting him do that. She wanted him to get into something big right away, so that she might begin her career. So that was what had been standing in his way! Study! How stupid! No, indeed! She wanted no scholar for a husband, who would bore her with horrid old dull books and lectures and never want to go anywhere with her! She must switch him away from this idea at once! She returned to the rejected business proposition with zeal and avidity. What was it? What did it involve? What were its future possibilities? Great! What on earth could he find in that to object to? How ridiculous! How long ago had that been offered to him? Was it too late to accept? What? He had had the offer repeated even more flatteringly that very day? Where was the letter? Would he let her see it?

She bent over Uncle Ramsey's brusque sentences with a hidden smile of triumph and pretended to be surprised.

"How perfectly wonderful! All that responsibility and all those chances to get to the top! Even a hint of Washington!"

She dimpled and opened her great eyes imploringly at him. She pictured herself in glowing terms going with him and holding court among the great of the land! She wheedled and coaxed and all but commanded, while he sat and watched her sadly, realizing how well fitted she was for the things she was describing and how she loved them all!

So shall we be separated, I and my people, from all the people that are upon the face of the earth!

He started upright! It was as if a Voice had spoken the words, those strange words from the Bible! Was this then what they meant? Separation! But Gila was "his people" now. Was she not one day to be his wife? He must explain it all to her. He must let her know that he had chosen a way of separation that forbade the paths wherein she was longing to wander. Would she shrink and wish to turn back? Nevertheless, he must make it plain to her.

Gently, quietly, he tried to make her understand. He told her of the visit of Ramsey Thomas and his own decision in the winter. He told her of the factory that was built to blind the eyes of those who were trying to uplift and help men. He tried to make conditions plain where girls as young as she, and with just such hopes and fears and ambitions, perhaps in some cases just as much sweetness and native beauty as she had, were obliged to spend long hours of toil amid surroundings that must crush the life out of any pure soul, and turn all the sweetness to bitterness, the beauty to a peril! He hinted at things she did not know nor dream of; dreadful things from which her life had always been safely guarded; and how he could not, for the sake of those crushed souls, accept a position that would close his mouth and tie his hands forever from doing anything about it. He told her he could not accept honor that was founded upon dishonor; that he had taken Christ for his pattern and guide; that he could do nothing that would drive God's presence from him.

She had been sitting with her face averted, her clasped hands dropped straight down at the side of her lap, the fingers interlaced and tense in excitement; her bosom heaving with agitation under the Paris gown; but when he reached this point in his argument shesprang to her feet and away from him, standing with her shoulders drawn back, her head thrown up, her chin out, her whole lithe body stiff and imperious.

"It is time this stopped!" she said, and her voice was cold like a frozen dagger and went straight through his heart. "It is time you put away forever this ridiculous idea of a Presence, and of setting yourself up to be better than any one else! This isn't religion, it is fanaticism! And it has got to stop now andforever, or I will have nothing whatever to do with you. Either you give up this idea of a ghost following you around all the time and accept Mr. Ramsey Thomas's offer this afternoon, or you and I part! You can choose,now, between me and your Presence!"

Gila had never been more beautiful than when she stood and uttered her terrible ultimatum to Courtland. Her little imperial head sat on her lovely shoulders royally, her attitude was perfect grace. Her spirited face with its dark eyes and lashes, its setting of blue-black hair, was fascinating in its exquisite modeling. She looked like a proud young cameo standing for her portrait. But her words shot through Courtland's heart like icy swords dividing his soul from his body.

He rose to his feet, gone suddenly white and stern, and stood looking at her as if his own heart had turned traitor and slain him. A moment they stood in battle array, two forces representing the two great powers of the universe. Looking straight into each other's souls they stood, plumbing the depths, seeing as in a revelation what each really was!

To Courtland it was suddenly made plain that this girl had no part or lot in the things that had become vital to him. She had not seen, shewouldnot see! Her love was not great enough to carry her over the bridge that separated them, and back over which he might not go after her!

Gila in her fierce haughtiness looked into her lover's eyes and saw, as she had never seen before, the mighty strength of his character! Saw that here was a man such as she would not likely meet again upon her way,and she was about to lose him forever. Saw that he would never give in about a matter of principle, and that his love was worth all the more to any woman because he would not; knew which way he would choose, from the first word of her challenge; yet the little fury within her would not let her withdraw. She stood with haughty mien and cold, flashing eyes, watching him suffer the blow she had dealt him; knew that it was more than his love for her she was killing with that blow, yet did not withdraw it while she might.

"Gila! Do you mean that?"

She looked him straight in the eye and thrust her sword in the deeper with a steady hand. "I do!"

He stood for a moment looking steadily at her with that cold, observant glance, as if he would have this last picture of her this way to cut away all tender memories that might cause pain in the future. Then he turned as if to One who stood by his side. Not looking back again, he said, clearly and distinctly:

"I choose!"

And with erect bearing he passed out of the door.

Gila stood, white and furious, her little clenched fists down at her sides, the sharp little teeth biting into the red underlip until the blood came. She heard the front door shut in the distance, and her soul cried out within her, yet she stood still and held her ground. She turned her face toward the library window. Between the curtains she could presently see his tall form walking down the street. He was not drooping, nor disheartened. He held his head up and walked as if in company with One whom he was proud to own. There was nothing dejected about the determined young back. Fine, noble, handsome as a man could be! She saw that one glimpse of his figure for a moment, then he passed beyond her sight and she knew in herheart he would come to her no more! She had sent him from her forever!

She dashed up to her room in a fury and locked herself in. She wept and stormed and denied herself to every one; she watched and waited for the telephone to ring, yet she knew he would not call her up!

Courtland never knew where he was walking as he went forth that day to meet his sorrow and face it like a man. He passed some of his professors, but did not see them. Pat McCluny came up and he looked him in the eye with an unseeing stare, and walked on!

Pat stood still and looked after him, puzzled!

"Holy Mackinaw! What's eating the poor stew now!" he ejaculated. He stood a moment looking back after Courtland as he walked straight ahead, passing several more university fellows without so much as a nod of recognition. Then he turned and slowly followed, on through the city streets, out into the quieter suburbs, out farther into the real country, mile after mile; out a by-path where grass grew thick and wild flowers straggled under foot, where presently a stream wound soft and deep between steep banks, and rocks loomed high on either hand; under a railroad bridge, and up among the rocks, climbing and puffing till at last they stood upon a great rock, McCluny just a little way behind and out of sight.

It was there in a sort of crevice, where the natural fall of the crumbling rocks had formed a shelter, that Courtland dropped upon his knees. Not as a spot he had been seeking for, but as a haven to which he had been led. He knelt, and all that Pat, standing, awed and uncovered, a few feet below, heard, was:

"O God! OGod!"

He knelt there a long time, while Pat waited below,trying to think what to do. The sun was beginning to sink, and a soft, pink summer light was glinting over the brown rocks and bits of moss and grasses. The young leaves waved lightly overhead like children dancing in the morning, and something of the sweetness and beauty of the scene crept into Pat McCluny's soul as he stood and waited before this Gethsemane gate for a man he loved to come forth.

At last he stepped up the rocks quietly and came and stood by Courtland, laying a gentle hand upon his shoulder. "Come on, old man, it's getting late. About time we were going back!"

Courtland got up and looked at him in a dazed way, as if his soul had been bruised and he was only just recovering consciousness. Without a word he turned and followed Pat back again to the city. They did not talk on the way back. Pat whistled a little, that was all.

When they reached the gates of the university Courtland turned and put out his hand, speaking in his own natural tone: "Thanks awfully, old chap! Sorry to have made you all this trouble!"

"That's all right, pard," said Pat, huskily, grasping the hand in his big fist. "I saw you were up against it and I stuck around, that's all!"

"I sha'n't forget it!"

They parted to their rooms. It was long past suppertime. Pat went away by himself to think.

Over and over again to himself Courtland was saying, as he came to himself and began to realize what had come to him: "It isn't so much that I have lost her. It is thatshe should have done it!"

Pat said nothing even to Tennelly about his walk with Courtland. He figured that Courtland would rather they did not know. He simply hovered nearlike a faithful dog, ready for whatever might turn up. He was relieved to see that his friend came down to breakfast next morning, with a white, resolute face, and went about the order of the day quietly, as if everything were as usual.

Tennelly and Bill Ward were on the alert. They had missed Courtland from the festivities the night before, but were so thoroughly occupied with their own part in the busy week that they had little time to question him. Later in the day Tennelly began to wonder why Courtland had not brought Gila, as he intended, for the class play, but a note from Gila informed him that she was done with Paul Courtland forever, and that he would have to get some one else to further his uncle's schemes, for she would not. She intimated that she might explain further if he chose to call, and Tennelly made a point of calling in between things, and found Gila inscrutable. All he could gather was that she was very, very angry with Courtland, hopelessly so, and that she considered him worth no more effort on her part. She was languidly interested in Tennelly and accepted his invitation to the dance that evening most graciously. She had expected to go in Courtland's company, but now if he repented and came to claim his right she would ignore it.

But Courtland had taken Gila at her word. He had no idea of claiming any former engagement with her. She had cut him off forever, and he must abide by it. Courtland had spent the night upon his knees in the little sacred room at the end of the hall. He was much stronger to face things than he had been when he left her. So when he met Gila walking with Tennelly he lifted his hat courteously and passed on, his face grave and stern as when she had last seen him, but in no way showing other sign that he had suffered or repentedhis choice. Pat, walking by his side, looked furtively at Gila then keenly at his companion, and winked to his inner consciousness.

"She's the poor simp that did the business! And she looks her part,b'leeve me!" he told himself. "But he'll get over that! He's too big to missherlong!"

Although there was pain in these days that followed Courtland's choice, there was also great peace in his heart. He seemed to have grown older, counting days as years, and to have a wider vision on life. Love of woman was gone out of his life, he thought, forever! Love wasn't an illusion quite as he had thought. No! But Gila had not loved him, or she never would have made him choose as she did! That was plain. If she had not loved, then it was better he should go out of her life! He was glad that the university days were over, and he might begin a new environment somewhere. He felt something strong within his soul pushing him on to a decision. Was it the Voice calling him again, leading up to what he was to do?

This thought was uppermost in his mind during the Commencement, which beforehand had meant so much to him; which all the four years had been the goal to which he had been urging forward. Now that it was here he seemed to have gone beyond it, somehow, and found it to be but a little detail by the way, a very small matter not worth stopping and making so much fuss about. Of course, if Gila had loved him; if she had been going to be there watching for him when he came forward to take his diploma; if she were to be listening when he delivered that oration upon which he had spent so much time and for which he received so much commendation, that would have meant everything to him a few brief days ago—of course, then it would have been different! But as it was he wonderedthat everybody seemed so much interested in things and took so much trouble for a lot of nonsense.

Courtland was surprised to see his father come into the great hall just as he went up on the platform with his class. He hadn't expected his father. He was a busy man who did not get away from his office often.

It touched him that his father cared to come. He changed his plans and made it possible to take the train home with him after the exercises, instead of waiting a day or two to pack up, as he had expected to do. The packing could wait awhile. So he went home with his father.

They had a long talk on the way, one of the most intimate that they had ever had. It appeared during the course of conversation that Mr. Courtland had heard of the offer made to his son by Ramsey Thomas, and that he was not unfavorable to its acceptance.

"Of course, you don't really need to do anything of the sort, you know, Paul," he said, affably. "You've got what your mother left you now, and on your twenty-fifth birthday there will be two hundred and fifty thousand coming to you from your Grandfather Courtland's estate. You could spend your life in travel and study if you cared to, but I fancy, with your temperament, you wouldn't be quite satisfied with an idle life like that. What's your objection to this job?"

Courtland told the whole story carefully, omitting no detail of the matter concerning conditions at the factory, and the matters at which he was not only expected to wink, but also sometimes to help along by his influence. He realized, as he told it, that his father would look at the thing fairly, but very differently.

"Well, after all," said the father, comfortably settling himself to another cigar, "that's all a matter of sentiment. It doesn't do to be too squeamish, you know, ifyou have ambitions. Besides, with your income you would have been able to help out and do a lot of good. You ought to have thought of that."

"In other words, earn my salary by squeezing the life out of them and then toss them a penny to buy medicine. I don't see it that way! No, dad, if I can't work at something clean I'll go out and work in the ground, or donothing, but Iwon'toppress the poor."

"Oh, well, Paul, that's all right if you feel that way about of it, of course. Ramsey Thomas wanted me to talk it over with you; promised to do the square thing by you and all that; and he's a pretty good man to get in with. Of course I won't urge you against your will. But what are you going to do, son? Haven't you thought of anything?"

"Yes," said Courtland, leaning back and looking steadily at his father. "I've decided that I'd like to study theology."

"Theology!" The father started and knocked an ash delicately from the end of his cigar. "H'm! Well, that's not a bad idea! Rather odd, perhaps, but still there's always dignity and distinction in it. Your great grandfather on your mother's side was a clergyman in the Church of England. Of course it's rather a surprise, but it's always respectable, and with your money you would be independent. You wouldn't have any trouble in getting a wealthy and influential church, either. I could manage that, I think."

"I'm not sure that I want to be a clergyman, father. I saidstudytheology. I want to know what scholarly Christians think of the Bible. I've studied it with a lot of scholarly heathen who couldn't see anything in it but literary merit. Now I want to see what it is that has made it a living power all through the ages.I've got to know what saints and martyrs have founded their faith upon."

"Well, Paul, I'm afraid you're something of an idealist and a dreamer like your mother. Of course it's all right with your income, but, generally speaking, it's as well to have an object in view when you take up study. If I were you I would look into the matter most carefully before I made any decisions. If you really think the ministry is what you want, why, I'll just put a word in at our church for you. Our old Doctor Bates is getting a little out of date and he'll be about ready to be put on the retired list by the time you are done your theological course. Let's see, how long is it, three years? Had you thought where you will go? What seminary? Better make a careful selection; it has so much to do with getting a good church afterward!"

"Father! You don'tunderstand!" said Courtland, desperately, and then sat back and wondered how he should begin. His father had been a prominent member of the board of trustees in his own church for years, but had he ever felt the Presence? In the days when Courtland used to sit and kick his heels in the old family pew and be reproved for it by his aunt, he never remembered any Presence. Doctor Bates's admirable sermons had droned on over his head like the dreamy humming of bees in a summer day. He couldn't remember a single thought that ever entered his mind from that source. Was that all that came of studying theology? Well, he would find out, and if it was, he wouldquitit!

They were all comfortably glad to see him at home. His stepmother beamed graciously upon him in between her social engagements, and his young brothers swarmed over him, demanding all the athletic news.The house was big, ornate, perfect in its way. It was good to eat such superior cooking—that is, if he had been caring to eat anything just then; and there was a certain freedom in life out of college that he knew he ought to enjoy; but somehow he was restless. The girls he used to know reminded him of Gila, or else had grown old and fat. The Country Club didn't interest him in the least, nor did the family's plans for the summer. It suited him not at all to be lionized on account of his brilliant career at college. It bored him to go into society.

Sometimes, when he was alone in his room, he would think of the situation and try to puzzle it out. It seemed as if he and the Presence were there on a visit which neither of them enjoyed very much, and which they were enduring for the sake of his father, who seemed gratified to have his eldest son at home once more. But all the time Courtland was chafing at the delay. He felt there was something he ought to be about. There wasn't anything here. Not even the young brothers presented a very hopeful field, or perhaps he didn't know how to go about it. He tried telling them stories one day when he wheedled them off in the car with him, and they listened eagerly when he told them of the fire in the theater, Stephen Marshall's wonderful part in the rescue of many, and his death. But when he went on and tried to tell them in boy language of his own experience he could see them look strangely, critically at him, and finally the oldest one said: "Aw rats! What kinda rot are you giving us, Paul? You were nutty then, o' course!" and he saw that, young as they were, their eyes were holden like the rest.

In the second week Courtland made his decision. He would go back to the university and pack up. Gila would be away from the city by that time; therewould be no chance of meeting her and having his wound opened afresh. The fellows would be all gone and he could do about as he pleased.

It was the second day after he went back that he met Pat on the street, and it was from Pat that he learned that Tennelly and Bill Ward had gone down to the shore to a house party given by "that fluffy-ruffles cousin of Bill's."

Pat drew his own conclusions from the white look on Courtland's face when he told him. He would heartily have enjoyed throttling the girl if he had had a chance just then, when he saw the look of suffering in Courtland's eyes.

Pat clung to Courtland all that week, helped him pack, and dogged his steps. Except when he visited the little sacred room at the end of the hall in the dormitory, Courtland was never sure of freedom from him. He was always on hand to propose a hike or a trip to the movies when he saw Courtland was tired. Courtland was grateful, and there was something so loyal about him that he couldn't give him the slip. So when he went down after Burns and whirled him away in his big gray car to the seashore Friday morning to stay until Saturday evening, Pat went along.

They certainly were a queer trio, the little Scotch preacher, the big Irish athlete, and the cultured aristocrat! Yet they managed to have a mighty good time of it those two days at the shore, and came back the warmest of friends. Pat proved his devotion to Burns by attending church the next day with Courtland, and listening attentively to every word that was said. It is true he did it much in the same way the fellows used to share one another's stunts in college, sticking by and helping out when one of the gang had a hard task to perform. But it pleased both Courtland and Burns that he came. Courtland wondered, as he shared the hymn-book with him and heard him growl out a few bass notes to old "Rock of Ages," why it was that it seemed to fill him with a kind of exaltation to hear Pat sing. He hadn't yet recognized the call to go a-fishing for men, nor knew that it was the divine angler's deep delight in his employment that was filling him. It was while they were singing that hymn that he stole a look at Pat, and felt a sudden wonder whether he would understand about the Presence or not, a burning desire to tell him about it some time if the right opportunity offered.

The days down at the shore had done a lot for Courtland. He had taken care that the spot he selected was many miles removed from the popular resort where Mr. Dare had a magnificent cottage; and there hadbeen absolutely nothing in the whole two days to remind him of Gila. It was a quiet place, with a far, smooth beach, and no board walks nor crowds to shut out the vision of the sea. He leaped along the sand and dived into the water with his old enthusiasm. He played like a fish in the ocean. He taught Burns several things about swimming, and played pranks like a school-boy. He basked in the sun and told jokes, laughing at Pat's brilliant wit and Burns's dry humor. At night they took long walks upon the sand and talked of deep things that Pat could scarcely understand. He was satisfied to stride between them, listening to the vigorous ring of Courtland's old natural voice again. He heard their converse high above where he lived, and loved them for the way they searched into things too deep for him.

It was out in the wildest, loneliest part of the beach that night that he heard the first hint of what had come to the soul of Courtland. Pat had come of Catholic ancestry. He had an inheritance of reverence for the unseen. He had never been troubled with doubts or sneers. He had let religion go by and shed it like a shower, but he respected it.

Courtland spent much time in the vicinity of the factory and of Robert Burns's church during the next few weeks. He helped Burns a good deal, for the man had heavily taxed himself with the burdens of the poor about him. Courtland found ways to privately relieve necessity and put a poor soul now and then on his feet and able to face the world again by the loan of a few cents or dollars. It took so pitifully little to open the gate of heaven to some lives! Courtland with his keen intellect and fine perceptions was able sometimes to help the older man in his perplexities; and once, when Burns was greatly worried over a billthat was hanging fire during a prolonged session of congress, Courtland went down to Washington for a week-end and hunted up some of his father's Congressional friends. He told them a few facts concerning factories in general, and a certain model, white-marble, much be-vined factory in particular, that at least opened their eyes if it did not make much difference in the general outcome. But though the bill failed to pass that session, being skilfully side-tracked, Courtland had managed to stir up a bit of trouble for Uncle Ramsey Thomas that made him storm about his office wrathfully and wonder who that "darned little rat of a preacher" had helping him now!

It was late in September that Pat, with a manner of studied indifference, told Courtland of a rumor that Tennelly was engaged to Gila Dare.

It was the very next Sunday night that Tennelly turned up at Courtland's apartment after he and Pat had gone to the evening service, and followed them to the church. He dropped into a seat beside Pat, amazed to find him there.

"You here!" he whispered, grasping Pat's hand with the old friendly grip. "Where's Court?"

Pat grinned and nodded up toward the pulpit.

Tennelly looked forward and for a minute did not comprehend. Then he saw Courtland sitting gravely in a pulpit chair by the little red-headed Scotch preacher.

"What in thunder!" he growled, almost out loud. "What's the joke?"

Pat's face was on the defensive at once, though it was plain he was enjoying Tennelly's perplexity. "Court's going to speak to-night!" It is probable Pat never enjoyed giving any information so much as that sentence in his life.

"The deuce he is!" said Tennelly, out loud. "You'relying, man!" which, considering that the Scotchman was praying, was slightly out of place.

Pat frowned. "Shut up, Nelly. Can't you see the game's called? I'm telling you straight. If you don't believe it wait and see."

Tennelly looked again. That surely was Courtland sitting there. What could be the meaning of it all? Had Courtland taken to itinerary preaching? Consternation filled his soul. He loved Courtland as his own brother. He would have done anything to save his brilliant career for him.

He hadn't intended staying to service. His plan had been to slip in, get Courtland to come away with him, have a talk, and go back to the shore on the late train. But the present situation altered his plans. There was nothing for it now but to stay and see this thing through. Pat was a whole lot deeper than the rest had ever given him credit for being. Pat was enjoying the psychological effect of the service on Tennelly. He had never been much of a student in the psychology class, but when it came right down to plain looking into another man's soul and telling what he was thinking about, and what he was going to do next, Pat was all there. That was what made him such an excellent football-player. When he met his opponent he could always size him up and tell just about what kind of plays he was going to make, and know how to prepare for them. Pat was no fool.

That was a most unusual service. The minister read the story of the martyr Stephen, and the conversion of Saul of Tarsus, taken from the sixth, seventh, eighth, and ninth chapters of Acts. It was brief and dramatic in the reading. Even Tennelly was caught and held as Burns read in his clear, direct way that made Scripture seem to live again in modern times.

"I have asked my friend Mr. Courtland to tell you the story of how he met Jesus one day on the Damascus road," said Burns, as he closed the Bible and turned to Courtland, sitting still with bowed head just behind him.

Courtland had made many speeches during his college days. He had been the prince among his class for debate. He had been proud of his ability as a speaker, and had delighted in being able to hold and sway an audience. He had never known stage fright, nor dreaded appearing before people. But ever since Burns had asked him if he would be willing to tell the story of the Presence to his people in the church before he left for his theological studies, Courtland had been just plain frightened. He had consented. Somehow he couldn't do anything else, it was so obviously to his mind a "call"; but if had been a coward in any sense he would have run away that Saturday afternoon and got out of it all. Only his horror of being "yellow" had kept him to his promise.

Since ascending to the platform he had been overcome by the audacity of the idea that he, a mere babe in knowledge, a recent scorner, should attempt to get up and tell a roomful of people, who knew far more about the Bible than he did, how he found Christ. There were no words in which to tell anything! They had all fled from his mind and it was a blank!

He dropped his head upon his hand in his weakness to pray for strength, and a great calm came to his soul. The prayer and Bible-reading had steadied him, and he had been able to get hold of what he had to say as the story of the young man Saul progressed. But when he heard himself being introduced so simply, and knew his time had come, he seemed to hear the words he had read that afternoon:

Fear not; for I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thy God: I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness.

Courtland lifted up his head and arose. He faced the sea of faces that a few moments before had swum before his gaze as if they had been a million. Then all at once Tennelly's face stood out from all the rest, intent, curious, wondering, and Courtland knew that his opportunity had come to tell Tennelly about the Presence!

Tennelly, the man whom he loved above all other men! Tennelly, the man who perhaps loved Gila and was to be close to her through life! His fears vanished. His soul burned within him.

Fixing his eyes on that fine, vivid face, Courtland began his story; and truly the words that he used must have been drawn red-hot from his heart, for he spoke as one inspired. Simply, as if he were alone in the room with Tennelly, he looked into his friend's eyes and told his story, forgetting all others present, intent only on making Tennelly see what Christ had been to him, what He was willing to be to Tennelly—and Gila! If they would!

Tennelly did not take his eyes from the speaker. It was curious to see him so absorbed, Tennelly, who was so conventional, so careful what people thought, so always conscious of all elements in his environment. It was as if his soul were sitting frankly in his eyes for the first time in his life, and things unsuspected, perhaps, even by himself, came out and showed themselves: traits, weaknesses, possibilities; longings, too, and pride.

When Courtland had finished and sat down he did not drop his head upon his hands again. He had spokenin the strength of the Lord. He had nothing of which to be ashamed. He was looking now at the audience, no longer at Tennelly. He began to realize that it had been given to him to bear the message to all these other people also. He was filled with humble exaltation that to him had been intrusted this great opportunity.

The people, too, were hushed and filled with awe. They showed by the quiet way they reached for the hymn-books, the reverent bowing of their heads for the final prayer, that they had all felt the power of Christ with the speaker. They lingered, many of them, and came up, pressing about him, just to touch his hand and make mute appeal with their troubled eyes. Some to ask him eagerly for reassurance of what he had been saying; others to thank him for the story. They were so humble, so sincere, so eager, these common people, like the ones of old who crowded around the Master and heard him gladly. Paul Courtland was filled with humility. He stood there half embarrassed as they pressed about him. He took their hands and smiled his brotherhood, but scarcely knew what to say to them. He felt an awkward boy who had made a great discovery about which he was too shy to talk.

Pat and Tennelly stood back against the wall and waited, saying not a word. Tennelly watched the people curiously as they went out: humble, common people, subdued, wistful, even tearful; some of them with illumined faces as if they had seen a great light in their darkness.

When at last Courtland drifted down to the back of the church and reached Tennelly the two met with a look straight into each other's soul, while their hands gripped in the old brotherhood clasp. Not a smile nor a commonplace expression crossed either face—just thatstrong, steady look of recognition and understanding. It was Tennelly looking at Courtland, the new man in Christ Jesus; Courtland looking at Tennelly after he had heard the story.

They walked back to Courtland's apartments almost in silence, a kind of holy embarrassment upon them all. Pat whistled "Rock of Ages" softly under his breath most of the way.

They sat for a time, talking, stiffly, as if they hardly knew one another, telling the news. Bill Ward had gone to California to look into a big land deal in which his father was interested. Wittemore's mother had died and he wasn't coming back next year for his senior year. It was all surface talk. Pat put in a little about football. He discussed which of last year's scrubs were most hopeful candidates for the 'varsity team this year. Not one of the three at that moment cared a rap whether the university had any football team or not. Their thoughts were upon deeper things.

But the recent service was not mentioned, nor the extraordinary fact of Courtland's having taken part in it. By common consent they shunned the subject. It was too near the heart of each.

Finally Pat discreetly took himself off, professedly in search of ice-water, as the cooler in the hall had for some reason run dry. He was gone some time.

When he had left the room Tennelly sat up alertly. He had something to say to Courtland alone. It must be said now before Pat returned.

Courtland got up, crossed the room, and stood looking out of the window on the myriad lights of the city. There was in his face a far yearning, and something too deep for words. It was as if he were waiting for a blow to fall.

Tennelly looked at Courtland's back and gathered up his courage: "Court," he said, hoarsely, trying to summon the nomenclature of the dear old days; "there's something I wanted to ask you. Was there anything—is there—between you and Gila Dare that makes it disloyal for your friend to try and win her if he can?"

It was very still in the room. The whir of the trolleys could be heard below as if they were out in the hall. They grated harshly on the silence. Courtland stood as if carved out of marble. It seemed ages to Tennelly before he answered, with the sadness of the grave in his tone:

"No, Nelly! It's all right! Gila and I didn't hit it off! It's all over between us forever. Go ahead! I wish you luck!"

There was an attempt at the old loving understanding in the answer, but somehow the last words had almost the sound of a sob in them. Tennelly had a feeling that he was wringing his own happiness out of his friend's soul:

"Thanks, awfully, Court! I didn't know," he said, awkwardly. "I think she likes me a lot, but I couldn't do anything if you had the right of way."

When Pat came back with a tray of glasses clinking with ice, and the smell of crushed lemons, they were talking of the new English professor and the chances that he would be better than the last, who was "punk." But Pat was not deceived. He looked from one to the other and knew the blow had fallen. He might have prevented it, but what was the use? It had to come sooner or later. They talked late. Finally, Tennelly rose and came toward Courtland, with his hand outstretched, and they all knew that the real moment of the evening had come at last:

"That was a great old talk you gave us this evening, Court!" Tennelly's voice was husky with feeling. One felt that he had been keeping the feeling out of sight all the evening. He was holding Courtland's hand in a painful grip, and looking again into his eyes as if he would search his soul to the depths: "You sure have got hold of something there that's worth looking into! You had a great hold on your audience, too! Why, you almost persuaded me there was something in it!"

Tennelly tried to finish his sentence in lighter vein, but the feeling was in his voice yet.

Courtland gripped his hand and looked his yearning with a sudden light of joy and hope: "If you only would, Nelly! It's been the thing I've longed for—!"

"Not yet!" said Tennelly, almost pulling his hand away from the detaining grasp. "Some time, perhaps, but not now! I've too much else on hand! I must beat it now! Man alive! Do you know what time it is? See you soon again!" Tennelly was off in a whirl of words.

"Almost thou persuadest me!" Had some one whispered the words behind him as he went?

Courtland stood looking after him till the door closed, then he turned and stepped to the window again. He was so long standing there, motionless, that Pat went at last and touched him on the shoulder.

"Say, pard," he said, in a low, gruff voice. "I'm nothing but a roughneck, I know, and not worth much at that, but if it's any satisfaction to you to know you've bowled a bum like me over to His side, whyI'm with you!"

Courtland turned and grasped his hand, throwing the other arm about Pat's shoulder. "It sure is, Pat, old boy," he said, eagerly. "It's the greatest thing ever! Thanks! I needed that just now! I'm all in!"

They stood so for some minutes with their arms across each other's shoulders, looking out of the window to the city, lying sorrowful, forgetful, sinful, before them; down to the street below, where Tennelly hastened on to win his Gila; up to the quiet, wise old stars above.

Tennelly did not come back as he had promised. Instead he wrote a gay little note to tell of his engagement to Gila. He said it was not to be announced publicly yet, as Gila was so young. They would wait a year perhaps before announcing it to the world, but he wanted Courtland to know. In an added line at the bottom he said: "That was a great old speech you made the other night, Court. I haven't forgotten it yet. Your reference to Marshall was a cracker-jack! The faculty ought to have heard it."

Courtland read it wearily, closed his eyes for a minute, passed his hand over his brow, then he handed the note over to Pat. The understanding between the two was very deep and tender now.

Pat read without comment, but the frown on his brow matched the set of his big jaw. When he spoke again it was to tell Courtland of the job he had been offered as athletic coach in a preparatory school in the same neighborhood with the theological seminary where Courtland had decided to study. Courtland listened without hearing and smiled wearily. He was entering his Gethsemane. Neither one of them slept much that night.

In the early dawning Courtland arose, dressed, and silently stole out of the room, down through the sleeping city, out to the country, where he had gone once before when trouble struck him. It seemed to him hemust get away to breathe, he must go where he and God could be alone.

Pat understood. He only waited till Courtland was gone to fling on his clothes in a hurry and be after him. He had noted from the window the direction taken, and guessed where he would be.

On and on walked Courtland with the burning sorrow in his soul; out through the heated city, over the miles of dusty road, his feet finding their way without apparent direction from his mind; out to the stream, and the path where wild flowers and grasses had strewn the ground in springtime; gay now with white and purple asters. The rocks wore vines of crimson, and goldenrod was full of bees and yellow butterflies. Gnarled roots bore little creeping tufts of squawberry with bright, red berries dotting thick between. But Courtland passed on and saw it not.

Above, the sky was deepest blue and flecked with summer clouds. Loud-voiced birds called gaily of the summer's ending, talked of travel in a glad, gay lilt. The bees droned on; the bullfrogs gave forth a deep wise thought or two; while softly, deeply, brownly, flowed the stream beside the path, with only a far, still fisherman here and there who noticed not. But Courtland heard nothing, saw nothing but the dark of his Gethsemane. For every nodding goldenrod and saucy purple aster was but a bright-winged thought to him to bring back the saucy, lovely face of Gila. She belonged now to another. He had not realized before how fully he had chosen, how lost she was to him, until another, and that his best friend, had taken her for his own. Not that he repented his decision or drew back. Oh no! He could not have chosen otherwise. Yet now, face to face with the truth, he realized that he had always hoped, even when he walked awayfrom her, that she would find the Christ and one day they would come together again. Now that hope was gone forever. She might find the Christ, he hoped—yes, hoped and prayed she would!—it was a wish apart from his personal loss, but she could never summon him now, for she had given herself to another!

He gained at last the rock-bound refuge where he knelt once before. Pat, coming later from afar, saw his old Panama lying down on the moss and knew that he was there. Creeping softly up, he assured himself that all was well, then crept away to wait. Pat had brought a basket of grapes and a great bag of luscious pears against the time when Courtland should have fought his battle and come forth. What those hours of waiting meant to Pat might perhaps be found written in the lives of some of the boys in that school where he coached athletics the next winter. But what they meant to Courtland will only be found written in the records on high.

Some time a little after noon there came a peace to Courtland's troubled soul.

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