Then he closed the door and knelt by the little table, laying his forehead reverently upon the Bible.

Since he had returned to college and things of life had become more real, Reason had returned to her throne and was crying out against his “fancies.”  What was that experience in the hospital but the phantasy of a sick brain?  What was the Presence but a fevered imagination?  He had been growing ashamed of dwelling upon the thought, ashamed of liking to feel that the Presence was near when he was falling asleep at night.  Most of all he had felt a shame and a land of perplexity in the biblical-literature class where he faced “Facts” as the professor called them, spoken in capitals.  Science was another force which mocked his fancies.  Philosophy cooled his mind and wakened him from his dreams.  In this atmosphere he was beginning to think that he had been delirious, and was gradually returning to his normal state, albeit with a restless dissatisfaction he had never known before.

But now in this calm, rose-decked room, with the quiet eyes of the simple mother looking down upon him, the resolutions in their chaplet-of-palm framing, the age-old Bible thumbed and beloved, he knew he had been wrong.  He knew he would never be the same.  That Presence, Whoever, Whatever it was, had entered into his life.  He could never forget it; never be convinced that it was not; never be entirely satisfied without it!  He believed it was the Christ!  Stephen Marshall’s Christ!

By and by he lifted up his head and opened the little worn Bible, reverently, curiously, just to touch it and think how the other boy had done.  The soft, much-turned leaves fell open of themselves to a heavily marked verse.  There were many marked verses all through the book.

Courtland’s eyes followed the words: 

     He that believeth on the Son of God hath the witness in
     himself.

Could it be that this strange new sense of the Presence was “the witness” here mentioned?  He knew it like his sense of rhythm, or the look of his mother’s face, or the joy of a summer morning.  It was not anything he could analyze.  One might argue that there was no such thing, science might prove there was not, but he knew it, had seen it, felt it!  He had the witness in himself.  Was that what it meant?

With troubled brow he turned over the leaves again: 

     If any man will do his will, he shall know of the doctrine,
     whether it be of God.

Ah!  There was an offer, why not close with it?

He dropped his head on the open book with the old words of self-surrender: 

“Lord, what wilt Thou have me to do?”

A moment later Pat McCluny opened the door, cautiously, quietly; then, with a nod to Tennelly back of him, he entered with confidence.

Courtland rose.  His face was white, but there was a light of something in his eyes they did not understand.