Brown’s eyes were glowing.  Jennings had slumped down in his chair, his head on his hand, his face partly hidden from his host.  There was silence in the room.

Brown kept Jennings overnight, making a bed for him on his couch, where he could see the fire.  As Jennings sat on the couch, ready to turn in, Brown came out from his bedroom, a long figure in his bathrobe and slippers, and knelt down before the old rocking-chair.  Jennings, in his surprise, sat perfectly still, looking at him.  He could see Brown’s lean, strong face in profile, the fine head—­it was a very fine head, though perhaps Jennings did not appreciate that—­a little lifted, the eyes closed.  Brown prayed in a conversational tone, as if the One he addressed were in the room above, with an opening between.

Then he rose, a little tender smile on his face, said, “Good-night, old man,” and went away into the inner room—­the door of which he did not close.

What did he leave behind him?  What was in the air?  Was this a common room, a homely room, lighted only by a smoldering fire?  What was it which suddenly and unaccountably gripped George Jennings’s heart, so that a sob rose in his throat?  What made him want to cry, like a schoolboy, with his head on his arms?  With all his long misery, tears had never once come to his relief.  His heart had been hard and his eyes dry.  Now, somehow, he felt something give way.

* * * * *

Jennings slept all night, and came out to breakfast with a queer, shamefaced aspect, yet with considerably less heaviness of foot than he had shown the night before.  He ate heartily, as well he might, for the food was extremely appetizing.  When he got up to go he stood still by his chair, seeming to be trying to say something.  Seeing this, Brown came over to him and put his hand on his shoulder.

“Yes, lad?” said he interrogatively.  He was smiling and the smile transformed his face, as always.

“I—­feel better, this morning,” stammered Jennings.  “I—­want to thank you.  I’m ashamed of the way I talked last night.  It was as you said.  I knew better, but I couldn’t seem to—­to—­”

Brown nodded.  “Of course you knew better,” he said heartily.  “We all know better.  Every man prays—­at some time or other.  It’s when we stop praying that things get dark.  Begin again, and something happens.  It always happens.  And sometimes the thing that happens is that we get a good sleep and are able to see things differently in the morning.  Good-bye—­and come back to-night.”

“Shall I?” Jennings asked eagerly.

“Surely.  We’ll have oysters to-night, roasted on the half-shell over the coals in the fireplace.  Like ’em?”

“I never ate any that way,” admitted Jennings.  “It sounds good.”  And he smiled broadly, a real smile at last.

“Wait till you try them,” promised Brown.

III