A few weeks later, when the two came down to look things over, the granite arch over the old front doors bore the inscription in letters of stone: 

     CHURCH OF THE PRESENCE OF GOD

Courtland stood looking for a moment, and then he turned to Pat eagerly.  “I’m going to get possession of the whole block if I can; maybe the opposite one, too, for a park, and you’ve got to be physical director!  I’ll turn the kids and the older boys over to you, old man!”

Pat’s eyes were full of tears.  He had to turn away to hide them.  “You’re a darned old dreamer!” he said, in a choking voice.

So the rejuvenation of the old church went on from week to week.  The men at the seminary grew curious as to what took Pat and Courtland to the city so much.  Was it a girl?  It finally got around that Courtland had a rich and aristocratic church in view, and was soon to be married to the daughter of one of its prominent members.  But when they began to congratulate him, Courtland grinned.

“When I preach my first sermon you may all come down and see,” he replied, and that was all they could get out of him.

Courtland found that a lot had to be done to that church.  Plaster was falling off in places, the pews were getting rickety.  The pulpit needed doing over, and the floor had to be recarpeted.  But it was wonderful what a difference it all made when it was done.  Soft greens and browns replaced the faded red.  The carpet was thick and soft, the cushions matched.  Bonnie had given careful suggestions about it all.

“You could have got along without cushions, you know,” said Pat, frugally, as he seated himself in appreciative comfort.

“I know,” said Courtland, “but I want this to look like a church!  Some day when we get the rest of the block and can tear down the buildings and have a little sunlight and air, we’ll have some real windows with wonderful gospel stories on them, but these will do for now.  There’s got to be a pipe-organ some day, and Bonnie will play it!”

Pat always glowed when Courtland spoke of Bonnie.  He never had ceased to be thankful that Courtland escaped from Gila’s machinations.  But that very afternoon, as Courtland was preparing to hurry to the train, there came a note from Pat, who had gone ahead, on an errand: 

DEAR COURT,—­Tennelly’s in trouble.  He’s up at his
old rooms.  He wants you.  I’ll wait for you down in the
office.

PAT.

CHAPTER XXXIV

Tennelly was pacing up and down the room.  His face was white, his eyes were wild.  He had the haggard look of one who has come through a long series of harrowing experiences up to the supreme torture where there is nothing worse that can happen.

Courtland’s knock brought him at once to the door.  With both hands they gave the fellowship grip that had meant so much to each in college.