Wittemore came to his room one evening, his face grayer, more strained and horse-like than ever.  Wittemore’s mother had made another partial recovery and insisted on his return to college.  He was plodding patiently, breathlessly along in his classes, trying to catch up again.  He had paid Courtland back part of the money he borrowed, and was gradually paying the rest in small instalments.  Courtland hated to take it, but saw that it would hurt him to refuse it; so he had fallen into a habit of stopping now and then to talk about his settlement work, just to show a little friendly interest in him.  Wittemore had responded with a quiet wistfulness and a patient hovering in the background that touched the other man’s heart deeply.

“I’ve just come from my rounds,” said Wittemore, sitting down, apologetically, on the edge of a chair.  “That old lady you carried the medicine to—­she’s been telling me how you made tea and toast!” He paused and looked embarrassed.

“Yes,” smiled Courtland.  “How’s she getting on?  Any better?”

“No,” said Wittemore, the hopeless gray look settling about his sensitive mouth.  “She’ll never be any better.  She’s dying!”

“Well,” said Courtland, “that’ll be a pleasant change for her, I guess.”

Wittemore winced.  Death had no pleasant associations for him.  “She told me you prayed for her!  She wants you to do it again!”

It was plain he thought the praying had been a sort of joke with Courtland.

Courtland looked up, the color rising slowly in his face.  He saw the accusation in Wittemore’s sad eyes.

“Of course I know what you think of such things.  I’ve heard you in the class.  I don’t believe in them any more myself, either, now.”  Wittemore’s voice had a trail of hopelessness in it.  “But somehow I couldn’t quite bring myself to make a mockery of prayer, even to please that old woman.  You see my mother still believes in prayer!” He spoke apologetically, as of a dear one who had lacked advantages.

“But I do believe in prayer!” said Courtland, earnestly.  “What you heard me say in class was before I understood.”

“Before you understood?” Wittemore looked puzzled.

“Listen, Wittemore.  Things are all different now.  I’ve met Jesus Christ and I’ve got my eyes open.  I was blind before, but since I’ve felt the Presence everything has been different.”

And then he told the story of his experience.  He did not make a long story of it.  He gave brief facts, and when it was finished Wittemore dropped his face into his hands and groaned: 

“I’d give anything if I could believe all that again,” came from between his long bony fingers.  “It’s breaking my mother’s heart to have me leave the faith!”

The slick hay-like hair fell in wisps over his hands, his high, bony shoulders were hunched despairingly over Courtland’s study table.  He was a great, pitiful object.