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 away from 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.

     When thou passest through the waters I will be with thee,
     and through the floods they shall not overflow thee!

It was as near to him as whispers in his ear, and peace was all about him.

He stood up, looked abroad, saw the beauty of the day, heard the dreaminess of the afternoon coming on, heard louder God’s call to his heart, and knew that there was strength for all his need.  It was then Pat came with his refreshment like a ministering angel.