Always in thinking of that walk afterward he thought of it as “they walking up the street”—­himself and the Presence.

The first thing he remembered about it was that he had lost that sense of uncertainty and anxiety.  How long the route was or where it was to end did not seem to matter.  Every step of the way was companioned by One who knew what He was about.  It came to him that he would like to go everywhere in such company; that no journey would be too far or arduous, no duty too unpleasant if all could be as this.

He stepped into the telephone-office and began calling up hospitals.  There were one or two that reported young women brought in, but the description was not at all like the girl of whom he was in search.  He jotted them down in his note-book, however, with a feeling that they might be a last resort.

As he turned the pages of the ’phone-book his eye caught the name of the city’s morgue, and a sudden horror froze into his mind.  What if something had happened to her and she had been taken there?  What if she had ended the life which had looked so lonely and impossible to her?  No, she would never do that, not with her faith in the Christ!  And yet, if her vitality was low, and her heart was taxed with sorrow, she would perhaps scarcely be responsible for what she did.

He rang up the morgue sharply and put tense, eager questions.

Yes, a young woman had been brought in about an hour ago....  Yes, dressed in black—­had long light hair and was slender. “Some looker!” the man who answered the ’phone said.

Courtland shuddered and hung up.  He felt that he must go to the morgue.

When they entered the gruesome place of the unknown dead, although the Presence entered with him, yet he felt that it was there already, standing close among the dead; had been there when they came in!

Courtland’s face was white, and set as he passed between the silent dead laid out for identification.  An inward shudder went through him as he was led to the spot where lay the latest comer, a slim young girl with long golden hair, sodden from the river where she had been found, her pretty face sharpened and coarsened by sin.

He drew a deep breath of relief and turned away quickly from the sight of her poor drowned eyes, rejoicing that they had not been the eyes of Bonnie.  It was terrible to think of Bonnie lying so, all drenched and her spirit put out.  He was glad he might still think of her alive, and go on searching for her.  But a dart of pain went through his heart as he looked again at this little wreck of womanhood, going out of a life that had dealt hardly with her; where she had reached for brightness and pleasure, and had found ashes and bitterness instead.  Going into a beyond of darkness, hoping, perhaps, for no kindlier hands to greet her than those that had been withheld from her in this world!  What would the resurrection mean to a poor little soul like that?