"I suppose you have, Nelly. God help you!"

When Courtland got back to the seminary he found a letter from Mother Marshall.



CHAPTER XXXII

Courtland opened Mother Marshall's letter with a feeling of relief and anticipation. Here at least would be a fresh, pure breath of sweetness. His soul was worn and troubled with the experience of the past two days. A great loneliness possessed him when he thought of Tennelly, or when he looked forward to his future, for he truly was convinced that he never should turn to the love of woman again; and so the dreams of home and love and little children that had had their normal part in his thoughts of the future were cut out, and the days stretched forward in one long round of duty.

DEAR PAUL [it began, familiarly]:

This is Stephen Marshall's mother and I'm calling you by your first name because it seems to bring my boy back again to be writing so familiar-like to one of his comrades.

We've been wondering, Father and I, since you said you didn't have any real mother of your own, whether you mightn't like to come home Christmas to us for a little while and borrow Stephen's mother. I've got a wonderful hungering in my heart to hear a little more about my boy's death. I couldn't have borne it just at first, because it was all so hard to give him up, and he just beginning to live his earthly life. But now since I can realize him over by the Father, I would like to know it all. Bonnie says that you saw Stephen go, and I thought perhaps you could spare a little time to run out West and tell me.

Of course, if you are busy and have other plans you mustn't let this bother you. I can wait till some time when you are coming West and can stop over for a day. But if you care to come home to Mother Marshall and let her play you are her boy for a little while, you will make us all very happy.

When Courtland had finished reading the letter he put his head down on his desk and shed the first tears his eyes had known since he was a little boy. To have a home and mother-heart open to him like that in the midst of all his sorrow and perplexity fairly unmanned him. By and by he lifted up his head and wrote a hearty acceptance of the invitation.

That was in November.

In the middle of December Tennelly and Gila were married.

It was not any of Courtland's choosing that he was best man. He shrank inexpressibly from even attending that wedding. He tried to arrange for his Western trip so early as to avoid it. Not that he had any more personal feeling about Gila, but because he dreaded to see his friend tied up to such a future. It seemed as if the wedding was Tennelly's funeral.

But Tennelly had driven up to the seminary on three successive weeks and begged that Courtland would stand by him.

"You're the only one in the wide world who knows all about it, and understands, Court," he pleaded, and Courtland, looking at his friend's wistful face, feeling, as he did, that Tennelly was entering a living purgatory, could not refuse him.

It did not please Gila to have him take that place in the wedding party. He knew her shame, and she could not trail her wedding robes as guilelessly before him now, nor lift her imperious little head, with its crown of costly blossoms, before the envious world, without realizing that she was but a whited sepulcher, her little rotten heart all death beneath the spotless robes. For she was keen enough to know that she was defiled forever in Courtland's eyes. She might fool Tennelly by pleading innocence and deceit, but never Courtland. For his eyes had pried into her very soul that night he had discovered her in sin. She had a feeling that he and his God were in league against her. No, Gila did not want Courtland to be Tennelly's best man. But Tennelly had insisted. He had given in about almost every other thing under heaven, and Gila had had her way, but he would have Courtland for best man.

She drooped her long lashes over her lovely cheeks, and trailed her white robes up a long aisle of white lilies to the steps of the altar; but when she lifted her miserable eyes in front of the altar she could not help seeing the face of the man who had discovered her shame. It was a case of her little naked, sinful soul walking in the Garden again, with the Voice and the eyes of a God upon it.

Lovely! Composed! Charming! Exquisite! All these and more they said she was as she stood before the white-robed priest and went through the ceremony, repeating, parrot-like, the words: "I, Gila, take thee, Llewellyn—" But in her heart was wrath and hate, and no more repentance than a fallen angel feels.

When at last the agony was over and the bride and groom turned to walk down the aisle, Gila lifted her pretty lips charmingly to Tennelly for his kiss, and leaned lovingly upon his arm, smiling saucily at this one and that as she pranced airily out into her future. Courtland, coming just behind with the maid of honor, one of Gila's feather-brained friends, lolling on his arm, felt that he ought to be inexpressibly thankful to God that he was only best man in this procession, and not bridegroom.

When at last the bride and groom were departed, and Courtland had shaken off the kind but curious attentions of Bill Ward, who persisted in thinking that Tennelly had cut him out with Gila, he turned to Pat and whispered, softly:

"For the love of Mike, Pat, let's beat it before they start anything else!"

Pat, anxious and troubled, heaved a sigh of relief, and hustled his old friend out under the stars with almost a shout of joy. Nelly was caught and bound for a season. Poor old Nelly! But Court was free! Thank the Lord!

Courtland was almost glad that he went immediately back to hard work again and should have little time to think. The past few days had wearied him inexpressibly. He had come to look on life as a passing show, and to feel almost too utterly left out of any pleasure in it.

It was a cold, snowy night that Courtland came down to the city and took the Western express for his holiday.

There was snow, deep, vast, glistening, when he arrived at Sloan's Station on the second morning, but the sun was out, and nothing could be more dazzling than the scene that stretched on every side. They had come through a blizzard and left it traveling eastward at a rapid rate.

Courtland was surprised to find Father Marshall waiting for him on the platform, in a great buffalo-skin overcoat, beaver cap, and gloves. He carried a duplicate coat which he offered to Courtland as soon as the greetings were over.

"Here, put this on; you'll need it," he said, heartily, holding out the coat. "It was Steve's. I guess it'll fit you. Mother and Bonnie's over here, waiting. They couldn't stand it without coming along. I guess you won't mind the ride, will you, after them stuffy cars? It's a beauty day!"

And there were Mother Marshall and Bonnie, swathed to the chin in rugs and shawls and furs, looking like two red-cheeked cherubs!

Bonnie was wearing a soft wool cap and scarf of knitted gray and white. Her cheeks glowed like roses; her eyes were two stars for brightness. Her gold hair rippled out beneath the cap and caught the sunshine all around her face.

Courtland stood still and gazed at her in wonder and admiration. Was this the sad, pale girl he had sent West to save her life? Why, she was a beauty, and she looked as if she had never been ill in her life! He could scarcely bear to take his eyes from her face long enough to get into the front seat with Father Marshall.

As for Mother Marshall, nothing could be more satisfactory than the way she looked like her picture, with those calm, peaceful eyes and that tendency to a dimple in her cheek where a smile would naturally come. Apple-cheeked, silver-haired, and plump. She was just ideal!

That was a gay ride they had, all talking and laughing excitedly in their happiness at being together. It was so good to Mother Marshall to see another pair of strong young shoulders there beside Father on the front seat again!

It was Mother Marshall who took him up to Stephen's room herself when they reached the nice old rambling farm-house set in the wide, white, snowy landscape. Father Marshall had taken the car to the barn, and Bonnie was hurrying the dinner on the table.

Courtland entered the room as if it had been a sacred place, and looked around on the plain comfort: the home-made rugs, the fat, worsted pincushion, the quaint old pictures on the walls, the bookcase with its rows of books; the big white bed with its quilted counterpane of delicate needlework, the neat marble-topped washstand with its speckless appointments and its wealth of large old-fashioned towels.

"It isn't very fancy," said Mother Marshall, deprecatingly. "We fixed up Bonnie's room as modern as we could when we knew she was coming"—she waved an indicating hand toward the open door across the hall, where the rosy glow of pink curtains and cherry-blossomed wall gave forth a pleasant sense of light and joy—"and we had meant to fix this all over for Steve the first Christmas when he came home, as a surprise; but now that he has gone we sort of wanted to keep it just as he left it."

"It is great!" said Courtland, simply. "I like it just like this. Don't you? It is fine of you to put me in it. I feel as if it was almost a desecration, because, you see, I didn't know him very well; I wasn't the friend to him I might have been. I thought I ought to tell you that right at the start. Perhaps you wouldn't want me if you knew all about it."

"You would have been his friend if you had had a chance to know him," beamed the brave little mother. "He was a real brave boy always!"

"He sure was!" said Courtland, deeply stirred. "But I did get to know what a man he was. I saw him die, you know! But it was too late then!"

"It is never too late!" said Mother Marshall, brushing away a bright tear. "There is heaven, you know!"

"Why, surely there is heaven! I hadn't thought of that! Won't that be great?" Courtland spoke the words reverently. It came to him gladly that he might make up in heaven for many things lost down here. He had never thought of that before.

"I wonder if you would mind," said Mother Marshall, wistfully, "if I was to kiss you, the way I used to do Steve when he'd been away?"

"I would mind very much," said Courtland, setting his suit-case down suddenly and taking the plump little mother reverently into his big arms. "It would be great, Mother Marshall," and he kissed her twice.

Mother Marshall reached her short little arms up around his neck and laid her gray head for just a minute on the tall shoulder, while a tear hurried down and fitted itself invisibly into her dimple; then she ran her fingers through his thick brown hair and patted his cheek.

"Dear boy!" she breathed, contentedly, but suddenly roused herself. "Here I'm keeping you, and that dinner'll spoil! Wash your hands and come down quick! Bonnie will have everything ready!"

Courtland first realized the deep, happy, spiritual life of the home when he came down to the dining-room and Father Marshall bowed his head to ask a blessing. Strange as it may seem, it was the first time in his life that he had ever sat at a home table where a blessing was asked upon the food. They had the custom in the seminary, of course, but it was observed perfunctorily, the men taking it by turns. It had never seemed the holy recognition of the Presence of the Master, as Father Marshall made it seem.

There was Bonnie, like a daughter of the house, getting up for a second pitcher of cream, running to the kitchen for more gravy. It was so ideal that Courtland felt like throwing his napkin up in the air and cheering.

It was all arranged by Mother Marshall that Bonnie and he should go to the woods after dinner for greens and a Christmas tree. Bonnie looked at Courtland almost apologetically, wondering if he were too tired for a strenuous expedition like that.

No. Courtland was not tired. He had never been so rested in his life. He felt like hugging Mother Marshall for getting up the plan, for he could see Bonnie never would have proposed it, she was too shy. He donned a pair of Stephen's old leather leggings and a sweater, shouldered the ax quite as if he had ever carried one before, and they started.

He thought he never had seen anything quite so lovely as Bonnie in that fuzzy little woolen cap, with the sunshine of her hair straying out and the fine glow in her beautiful face. He knew he had never heard music half so sweet as Bonnie's laugh as it rang through the woods when she saw a squirrel sitting on a high limb scolding at their intrusion. He never thought of Gila once the whole afternoon, nor even brought to mind his lost ideals of womanhood.

They found a tree just to their liking. Bonnie had it all picked out weeks beforehand, but she did not tell him so, and he thought he had discovered it for himself. They cut masses of laurel, and ground-pine, and strung them on twine. They dragged the tree and greens home through the snow, laughing and struggling with their fragrant burden, getting wonderfully well acquainted, so that at the very door-step they had to lay down their greens and have a snow-fight, with Father and Mother Marshall standing delightedly at the kitchen window, watching them. Mother's cheek was pressed softly against the old gray hat. She was thinking how Stephen would have liked to be here with them; how glad he would be if he could hear the happy shouts of young people ringing around the lonely old house again!

They set the tree up in the big parlor, and made a great log fire on the hearth to give good cheer—for the house was warm as a pocket without it. They colored and strung popcorn, gilded walnuts, cut silver-paper stars and chains for the tree, and hung strings of cranberries, bright-red apples, and oranges between. They trimmed the house from top to bottom, even twining ground-pine on the stair rail.

Those were the speediest two weeks that Courtland ever spent in his life. He had thought to remain with the Marshalls perhaps three or four days, but instead of that he delayed till the very last train that would get him back to the seminary in time for work, and missed two classes at that. For he had never had a comrade like Bonnie; and he knew, from the first day almost, that he had never known a love like the love that flamed up in his soul for this sweet, strong-spirited girl. The old house rang with their laughter from morning to night as they chased each other up-stairs and down, like two children. Hours they spent taking long tramps through the woods or over the country roads; more hours they spent reading aloud to each other, or rather, most of the time Bonnie reading and Courtland devouring her lovely face with his eyes from behind a sheltering hand, watching every varying expression, noting the straight, delicate brows, the beautiful eyes filled with holy things as they lifted now and then in the reading; marveling over the sweetness of the voice.

The second day of his visit Courtland had made an errand with Bonnie to town to send off several telegrams. As a result a lot of things arrived for him the day before Christmas, marked "Rush!" They were smuggled into the parlor, behind the Christmas tree, with great secrecy after dark by Bonnie and Courtland; and covered with the buffalo robes from the car till morning. There was a big leather chair with air-cushions for Father Marshall; its mate in lady's size for Mother; a set of encyclopedias that he had heard Father say he wished he had; a lot of silver forks and spoons for Mother, who had apologized for the silver being rubbed off of some of hers. There were two sets of books in wonderful leather bindings that he had heard Bonnie say she longed to read, and there was the tiniest little gold watch, about which he had been in terrible doubt ever since he had sent for it. Suppose Bonnie should think it wrong to accept it when she had known him so short a time! How was he going to make her see that it was all right? He couldn't tell her she was a sort of a sister of his, for he didn't want her for a sister. He puzzled over that question whenever he had time, which wasn't often, because he was so busy and so happy every minute.

Then there were great five-pound boxes of chocolates, glaced nuts and bonbons, and a crate of foreign fruits, with nuts, raisins, figs, and dates. There was a long, deep box from the nearest city filled with the most wonderful hothouse blossoms: roses, lilies, sweet peas, violets, gardenias, and even orchids. Courtland had never enjoyed spending money so much in all his life. He only wished he could get back to the city for a couple of hours and buy a lot more things.

To paint the picture of Mother Marshall when she sat on her new air-cushions and counted her spoons and forks—real silver forks beyond all her dreamings!—to show Father Marshall, as he wiped his spectacles and bent, beaming, over the encyclopedias or rested his gray head back against the cushions! Ah! That would be the work of an artist who could catch the glory that shines deeper than faces and reaches souls! As for Courtland, he was too much taken up watching Bonnie's face when she opened her books, looking deep into her eyes as she looked up from the little velvet case where the watch ticked softly into her wondering ears; seeing the breathlessness with which she lifted the flowers from their bed among the ferns and placed them reverently in jars and pitchers around the room.

It was a wonderful Christmas! The first real Christmas Courtland had ever known. Sitting in the dim firelight between dusk and darkness, watching Bonnie at the piano, listening to the tender Christmas music she was playing, joining his sweet tenor in with her clear soprano now and then, Courtland suddenly thought of Tennelly, off at Palm Beach, doing the correct thing in wedding trips with Gila. Poor Tennelly! How little he would be getting of the real joy of Christmas! How little he would understand the wonderful peace that settled down in the heart of his friend when, later, they all knelt in the firelight, and Father Marshall prayed, as if he were talking to One who stood there close beside him, whose companionship had been a life experience.

There were so many pictures that Courtland had to carry back with him to the seminary. Bonnie in the kitchen, with a long-sleeved, high-necked gingham apron on, frying doughnuts or baking waffles. Bonnie at the organ on Sunday in the little church in town, or sitting in a corner of the Sunday-school room surrounded by her seventeen boys, with her Bible open on her lap and in her face the light of heaven while the boys watched and listened, too intent to know that they were doing it. Bonnie throwing snowballs from behind the snow fort he built her. Bonnie with the wonderful mystery upon her when they talked about the little watch and whether she might keep it. Bonnie in her window-seat with one of the books he had given her, the morning he started to go out with Father Marshall and see what was the matter with the automobile, and then came back to his room unexpectedly after his knife and caught a glimpse of her through the open door.

And that last one on the platform of Sloan's Station, waving him a smiling good-by!

Courtland had torn himself away at last, with a promise that he would return the minute his work was over, and with the consolation that Bonnie was going to write to him. They had arranged to pursue a course of study together. The future opened up rosily before him. How was it that skies had ever looked dark, that he had thought his ideals vanished, and womanhood a lost art when the world held this one pearl of a girl? Bonnie! Rose Bonnie!



CHAPTER XXXIII

The rest of the winter sped away quickly. Courtland was very happy. Pat looked at him enviously sometimes, yet he was content to have it so. His old friend had not quite so much time to spend with him, but when he came for a walk and a talk it was with a heartiness that satisfied. Pat had long ago discovered that there was a girl at Stephen Marshall's old home, and he sat wisely quiet and rejoiced. What kind of a girl he could only imagine from Courtland's rapt look when he received a letter, and from the exquisite photograph that presently took its place on Courtland's desk. He hoped to have opportunity to judge more accurately when the summer came, for Mother Marshall had invited Pat to come out with Courtland in the spring and spend a week, and Pat was going. Pat had something to confess to Mother Marshall.

Courtland went out twice that summer, once for a week as soon as his classes were over. It was then that Bonnie promised to marry him.

Mother Marshall had a lot of sense and took a great liking to Pat. One day she took him up in Stephen's room and told him all about Stephen's boyhood. Pat, great big, baby giant that he was, knelt down beside her chair, put his face in her lap, and blurted out the tale of how he had led the mob against Stephen and been indirectly the cause of his death.

Mother Marshall heard him through with tears of compassion running down her cheeks. It was not quite news to her, for Courtland had told her something of the tale, without any names, when he had confessed that he held the garments of those who did the persecuting.

"There, there!" said Mother Marshall, patting the big fellow's dark head. "You never knew what you were doing, laddie! My Steve always wanted a chance to prove that he was brave. When he was just a little fellow and read about the martyrs, he used to say: 'Would I have that much nerve, mother? A fellow never can tell till he's been tested!' And so I'm not sorry he had his chance to stand up before you all for what he thought was right. Did you see my boy's face, too, when he died?"

"Yes," said Pat, lifting his head earnestly. "I'd just picked up a little kid he sent up to the fire-escape, and saw his face all lit up by the fire. It looked like the face of an angel! Then I saw him lift up his hands and look up like he saw somebody above, and he called out something with a sort of smile, as if he was saying he'd be up there pretty soon! And then—he fell!"

The tears were raining down Mother Marshall's cheeks by now, but there was a smile of triumph in her eyes.

"He wanted to be a missionary, my Stephen did, only he was afraid he wouldn't be able to preach. He always was shy before folks. But I guess he preached his sermon!" She sighed contentedly.

"He sure did!" said Pat. "I never forgot that look on his face, nor the way he took our roughneck insults. None of the fellows did. It made a big impression on us all. And when Court began to change, came out straight and said he believed in Christ, and all that, it knocked the tar out of us all. Stephen hasn't got done preaching yet. You ought to hear Court tell the story of his death. It bowled me over when I heard it, and everywhere he tells it men believe! Wherever Paul Courtland tells that story Stephen Marshall will be preaching."

Mother Marshall stooped over and kissed Pat's astonished forehead. "You have made me a proud and happy mother to-day, laddie! I'm glad you came."

Pat, suddenly conscious of himself, stumbled, blushing, to his feet. "Thanks, Mother! It's been great! Believe me, I sha'n't ever forget it. It's been like looking into heaven for this poor bum. If I'd had a home like this I might have stood some chance of being like your Steve, instead of just a roughneck athlete."

"Yes, I know," smiled Mother Marshall. "A dear, splendid roughneck, doing a big work with the boys! Paul has told me all about it. You're preaching a lot of sermons yourself, you know, and going to preach some more. Now shall we go down? It's time for evening prayers."

So Pat put his strong arm around Mother Marshall's plump waist, drew one of her hands in his, and together they walked down to the parlor, where Bonnie was already playing "Rock of Ages." It seemed to Pat the kingdom of heaven could be no sweeter, for this was the kingdom come on earth. When he and Courtland were up-stairs in their room, and all the house quiet for the night, Pat spoke:

"I've sized it up this way, Court. There ain't any dying! That's only an imaginary line like the equator on the map. It's heaven or hell, both now and hereafter! We can begin heaven right now if we want to, and live it on through; and that's what these folks have done. You don't hear them sitting here fighting like the professors used to do, about whether there's a heaven or a hell! They know there's both. They're living in one and pulling folks out of the other, hard as they can; and they're too blamed busy, following out the Bible and seeing it prove itself, to listen to all the twaddle to prove that it ain't so! I sure am darned glad you gave me the tip and I got a chance to get in on this little old game, for it's the best game I know, and the best part about it is it lasts forever!"

Tennelly was away all that summer, doing the fashionable summer resorts and taking a California trip. The next winter he spent in Washington. Uncle Ramsey had him at work, and Courtland ran on him in his office once, when he took a hurried trip down to see what he could do for the eight-hour bill. Tennelly looked grave and sad. He was touchingly glad to see Courtland. They did not speak of Gila once, but when Courtland lay in his sleepless sleeper on the return trip that night Tennelly's face haunted him, the wistfulness in it.

A few months later Tennelly wrote a brief note announcing the birth of a daughter, named Doris Ramsey after his grandmother. The tone of his letter seemed more cheerful.

Courtland was so happy that winter he could scarcely contain himself. Pat had great times kidding him about the Western mail. Courtland was supplying a vacant church down in the old factory district in the city, and Pat often went along. On one of these Sunday afternoons late in the spring they were walking down a street they did not often take, and suddenly Courtland stopped with an exclamation of dismay and looked up at a great blaring sign wired on a big old-fashioned church:

CHURCH OF GOD FOR SALE

was the startling statement.

Pat looked up at the sign and then at Courtland's face, figuring out, as he usually could, what was the matter with Court.

"Gosh! That's darned tough luck!" he said, sympathetically.

"It's terrible!" said Courtland.

"H'm!" said Pat, again. "Whose fault do you s'pose it is? Not God's. Somebody fell down on his job, I reckon! Congregation gone to the devil, very likely!"

"Wait!" said Courtland, gravely. "I must find out."

He stepped into a little cigar-store and asked some questions. "You were right, Pat," he said, when he came out. "The congregation has gone to the devil. They have moved up into the more fashionable part of town, and the church is for sale. There's only one member of the old church left down here. I'm going around to see him. Pat, that sign mustn't stay up there! It's a disgrace to God."

"What could you do about it?" Pat was puzzled.

"Do about it? Why, man, I can buy it if there isn't any other way!"

They went to see the church member, who proved to be a good old soul, but deaf and old and very poor. He said they had to give the church up; they couldn't make it pay. All the rich people had moved away. He shook his head sadly and told how he and his wife were married there. He hobbled over and showed them how to get in a side door.

The yellow afternoon sun was sifting through windows of cheap stained glass, and fell in mellow quiet upon the faded cushions and musty ingrain carpet. The place had that deserted look of having been abandoned, yet Courtland, as he stood in the shadow under the old balcony, seemed to see the Presence of the eternal God standing up there behind the pulpit, seemed to feel the hallowed memories of long ago, and scent the lingering incense of all the prayers that had gone up from all the souls who had worshiped there in the years that were past.

"They think an iron-foundry's going to buy it, or else some one may make a munition-factory out of it," the old man contributed. "This war's bringing a big change over things."

"Their plowshares into swords, their pruning-hooks into spears," chanted an unseen voice, sadly, behind Courtland. His face set sternly. He turned to Pat:

"I can't let that happen, old man!" he said. "I'm going to buy it if I can. Come, we'll go and look it up!"

Pat looked at his companion with awe. He had always known he was rich, but—to purchase a church as if it were a jack-knife! That sure was going some!

Courtland did not return to the seminary until Tuesday morning. By that time he had bought his church. It didn't take him long to come to an agreement. The Church of God was in a bad way and was willing to take up with almost any offer that would cover their liabilities.

"Well," said Pat, "that sure was some hustle! There's one thing, Court. You won't have to candidate for any church like those other guys in your little old seminary. You just went out and bought one; though I surmise you and I'll have to do some scrubbing if you calculate to hold services there very soon."

"H'm!" said Courtland. "I hadn't thought of that, Pat! Maybe that would be a good idea!"

"Holy Mackinaw, man! What did you buy it for, then, if you didn't intend to use it? Do it just to have the right to tear down that blooming sign, did you?"

"That's about the size of it," smiled Courtland as he halted in front of his newly acquired church and looked up at it with interest. "But now I've got it I might as well use it. Suppose we start a mission here, Pat, you and I? Let's cut that sign down first, and then, Pat, I'm going to hunt up a stone-cutter. This church has got to have a new name. 'Church of God for sale' has killed this one! A church that used to belong to God and doesn't any more is what that means. They have sold the Church of God, but His Presence is still here!"

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.

A moment they stood so, looking into each other's eyes, Courtland, wondering, startled, questioning. It was Gila, of course! Nothing else could reach the man's soul and make him look like that! But what had happened? Not death! No, not even death could bring that look of shame and degradation to his high-minded friend's eyes.

As if Tennelly had read his question he spoke in a voice so husky with emotion that his words were scarcely audible: "Didn't Pat tell you?"

Courtland shook his head.

Tennelly's head went down, as if he were waiting for courage to speak. Then, huskily: "She's gone, Court!"

"Gone?"

"Left me, Court! She sailed at daybreak for Italy with another man."

Tennelly fumbled in his pocket and brought out a crumpled note, blistered with tears. "Read it!" he muttered, and turned away to the window.

Courtland read:

DEAR LEW,—I'm sure when you come to your senses and get over some of your narrow ideas you'll be as much relieved as I am over what I've decided to do. You and I never were fitted for each other, and I can't stand this life another day. I'm simply perishing! It's up to me to do something, for I know, with your strait-laced notions, you never will! So when you read this I shall be out of reach, on my way to Italy with Count von Bremen. They say there's going to be war in this country, anyway, and I hate such things, so I had to get out of it. You won't have any trouble in getting a divorce, and you'll soon be glad I did it.

As for the kid, if she lives she's much better off with you than with me, for you know I never could stand children; they get on my nerves. And, anyhow, I never could be all the things you tried to make me, and it's better in the end this way. So good-by, and don't try to come after me. I won't come back, no matter what you do, for I'm bored to death with the last two years and I've got to see some life!

GILA

Courtland read the flippant little note twice before he trusted himself to speak, and then he walked over to the window, slowly smoothing and folding the crumpled paper. A baby's cry in the next room pierced the air, and the father gripped the window-seat and quivered as if a bullet had struck him.

Courtland put his hand lovingly within his friend's arm: "Nelly, old fellow," he said, "you know that I feel with you—"

"I know, Court!" with a weary sigh. "That's why I sent for you. I had to have you, somehow!"

"Nelly! There aren't any words made delicate enough to handle this thing without hurting. It's raw flesh and full of nerves. There's just One can do anything here! I wish you believed in God!"

"I do!" said Tennelly, in a dreary tone.

"He can come near you and give you strength to bear it. I know, for He did it for me once!"

Courtland felt as if his words were falling on deaf ears, but Tennelly, after a pause, asked, bitterly:

"Why did He do this to me, if He's what you say He is?"

"I'm not sure that He did, old man! I think perhaps you and I had a hand in it!"

Tennelly looked at him keenly for an instant and turned away, silent. "I know what you mean," he said. "You told me I'd go through hell, and I have. I knew it in a way myself, but I'm afraid I'd do it again! I loved her! God! I'm afraid—I love her yet! Man! You don't know what an ache such love is."

"Yes, I do," said Courtland, with a sudden light in his face, but Tennelly was not heeding him.

"It isn't entirely that I've lost her; that I've got to give up hoping that she'll some time care and settle down to knowing she is gone forever! It's the way she went! The—the—the disgrace! The humiliation! The awfulness of the way she went! We've never had anything like that in our family. And to think my baby has got to grow up to know that shame! To know that her mother was a disgraceful woman! That I gave her a mother like that!"

"Now, look here, Tennelly! You didn't know! You thought she would be all right when you were married!"

"But I did know!" wailed Tennelly. "I knew in my soul! I think I knew when I first saw her, and that was why I worried about you when you used to go and see her. I knew she wasn't the woman for you. But, blamed fool that I was! I thought I was more of a man of the world, and would be able to hold her! No, I didn't, either, for I knew it was like trying to enjoy a sound sleep in a powder-magazine with a pocketful of matches, to trust my love to her! But I did it, anyway! I dared trouble! And my little child has got to suffer for it!"

"Your little child will perhaps be better for it!"

"I can't see it that way!"

"You don't have to. If God does, isn't that enough?"

"I don't know! I can't see God now; it's too dark!" Tennelly put his forehead against the window-pane and groaned.

"But you have your little child," said Courtland, hesitating. "Isn't that something to help?"

"She breaks my heart," said the father. "To think of her worse than motherless! That little bit of a helpless thing! And it's my fault that she's here with a future of shame!"

"Nothing of the sort! It'll be your fault if she has a future of shame, but it's up to you. Her mother's shame can't hurt her if you bring her up right. It's your job, and you can get a lot of comfort out of it if you try!"

"I don't see how," dully.

"Listen, Tennelly. Does she look like her mother?"

Tennelly's sensitive face quivered with pain. "Yes," he said, huskily. "I'll send for her and you can see." He rang a bell. "I brought her and the nurse up to town with me this morning."

An elderly, kind-faced woman brought the baby in, laid it in a big chair where they could see it, and then withdrew.

Courtland drew near, half shyly, and looked in startled wonder. The baby was strikingly like Gila, with all her grace, delicate features, wide innocent eyes. The sweep of the long lashes on the little white cheeks, that were all too white for baby flesh, seemed old and weird in the tiny face. Yet when the baby looked up and recognized its father it crowed and smiled, and the smile was wide and frank and lovable, like Tennelly's. There was nothing artificial about it. Courtland drew a long sigh of relief. For the moment he had been looking at the baby as if it were Gila grown small again; now he suddenly realized it was a new little soul with a life and a spirit of its own.

"She will be a blessing to you, Nelly," he said, looking up hopefully.

"I don't see it that way!" said the hopeless father, shaking his head.

"Would you rather have her—taken away—as her mother suggested?" he hazarded, suddenly.

Tennelly gave him one quick, startled look. "God! No!" he said, and staggered back into a chair. "Do you think she looks so sick as that? I know she's not well. I know she's lost flesh! But she's been neglected. Gila never cared for her and wouldn't be bothered looking after things. She was angry because the baby came at all. She resented motherhood because it put a limitation on her pleasures. My poor little girl!"

Tennelly dropped upon his knees beside the baby and buried his face in its soft little neck.

The baby swept its dark lashes down with the old Gila trick, and looked with a puzzled frown at the dark head so close to her face. Then she put up her little hand and moved it over her father's hair with an awkward attempt at comfort. The great big being with his head in her neck was in trouble, and she was vaguely sympathetic.

A wave of pity swept over Courtland. He dropped upon his knees beside his friend and spoke aloud:

"O Lord God, come near and let my friend feel Thy Presence now in his terrible distress. Somehow speak peace to his soul and help him to know Thee, for Thou art the only One that can help him. Help him to tell Thee all his heart's bitterness now, alone with Thee and his little child, and find relief."

Softly Courtland arose and slipped from the room, leaving them alone with the Presence.

* * * * *

Gila had been gone two months when the day was finally set for Bonnie's wedding.

There had been consultations long and many over what to do about telling Tennelly, for even Bonnie saw that the event could not but be painful to him, coming as it did on the heels of his own deep trouble. And Tennelly had long been Courtland's best friend; at least until Pat grew so close as to share that privilege with him. It was finally decided that Courtland should tell Tennelly about the approaching wedding at his first opportunity.

Bonnie had long ago heard all about Gila, been through the bitter throes of jealousy, and come out clear and trusting, with the whole thing sanely and happily relegated to that place where all such troubles go from the hearts of those who truly love each other and know there never could be any one else in the universe who could take the place of the beloved.

Courtland had been preaching in the Church of the Presence of God for four Sabbaths now, and the congregation had been growing steadily. There had not been much advertising. He had told a few friends in the factories near by that there was to be service. He had put up a notice on the door saying that the church would be open for worship regularly and every one was welcome. He did not wish to force anything. He was following the leading of the Spirit. If God really meant this work for him, He would show him.

Courtland's preaching was not of the usual cut-and-dried order of the young theologue. His theology had been studied to help him to understand his God and his Bible, not to give him a set of rules for preaching. So when he stood up in the pulpit it was not to follow any conventional order of service, or to try to imitate the great preachers he had heard, but to give the people who came something that would help them to live during the week and enable them to realize the Presence of Christ in their daily lives.

The men at the seminary got wind of it somehow, and came down by twos and threes, and finally dozens, as they could get away from their own preaching, to see what the dickens that close-mouthed Courtland was doing, and went away thoughtful. It was not what they had expected of their brilliant classmate, ministering to these common working-people right in the neighborhood where they lived and worked.

At first they did not understand how he came to be in that church, and asked what denomination it was, anyway. Courtland said he really didn't know what it had been, but that he hoped it was the denomination of Jesus Christ now.

"But whose church is it?" they asked.

"Mine," he said, simply.

Then they turned to Pat for explanation.

"That's straight," said Pat. "He bought it."

"Bought it! Oh!" They were silenced. Not one of them could have bought a church, and wouldn't have if they could. They would have bought a good mansion for themselves against their retiring-day. Few of them understood it. Only the man who was going to darkest Africa to work in the jungles, and a couple who were bound, one for the leper country, and another for China, had a light of understanding in their eyes, and gripped Courtland's hand with reverence and ecstatic awe.

"But, man alive!" lingered one, unwilling to leave his brilliant friend in such a hopeless hole. "Don't you realize if you don't hitch on to some denomination, or board of trustees, or something, your work won't count in the long run? Who's to carry on your work and keep up your name and what you have done, after you are gone? You're foolish!" He had just received a flattering call to a city church himself, and he knew he was not half so well fitted for it as Courtland.

But Courtland flung up his hat in a boyish way and laughed. "I should worry about my name after I am gone," he said. "And as for the work, it's for me to do, isn't it? Not for me to arrange for after I'm dead. If my heavenly Father wants it to keep up after I'm gone He'll manage to find a way, won't He? My job is to look after it while I'm here. Perhaps it won't be needed any longer after I'm gone. God sent me here to buy His church when it was for sale, didn't He? Well, then, if it is for sale again he'll find somebody else to buy it, unless He is done with it. The New Jerusalem may be here by that time and we won't have to have any churches. God Himself shall be the tabernacle! So you see I'm just going on running my own little old church the best I can with what God gives me, and I won't trouble any boards at present, not so long as I have money enough to keep the wheels moving."

They went away then with doubtful looks, and Courtland heard one say to another, shaking his head in a dubious way:

"I don't like it. It's all very irregular!"

And the other replied: "Yes! It's a pity about him! He might have done something big if he hadn't been so impractical!"

"The poor stews!" said Pat, dryly, looking after them. "They haven't got religion enough to carry them over till next week, the most of them, and what they'll do when they really see what kind the Lord is I can't guess! I wonder what they think that rich young man that Jesus loved would have been like, anyway, if he hadn't gone away sorrowful and kept his vast possessions. Cut it out, Pat! You're letting the devil in again and getting censorious! Just shut your mouth and saw wood! They'll find out some little old day in the morning, I guess."

Courtland wrote it all to Bonnie, all the happenings at seminary and church, what the theologues had said about his being impractical and irregular, and Bonnie, with a tender smile, leaned down and kissed the words in the letter, and murmured, "Dear impractical beloved!" all softly to herself.

For Bonnie was very happy. The possession of great wealth that would have to be spent in the usual way, surrounded by social distinction, attended by functions and society duties, would have been an inexpressible burden to her. But money to be used without limit in helping other people was a miracle of joy. To think that it should have come to her!

Yet there was something greater than the money and the new interests that were opening up before her, and that was the wonder of the man who had chosen her to be his wife. That such a prince among men, such a friend of God, should have passed by others of rank, of beauty and attainments far greater than hers, and come away out West to take her, fairly overwhelmed her with wonder when she had time to think about it. For she was as busy as she was happy in these days. There was her school work, her music, the little home duties, all she could make Mother Marshall leave for her; the beautiful sewing she was doing on her simple bridal garments; and stealing time from all to write the most wonderful letters to the insatiable lover in the East.

Softly Bonnie went through these days, tender, happy, blithe as a bird; a song on her lips whenever she went about the house; a caress in her very touch for the dear old people who had been father and mother to her in her loneliness; realizing only vaguely what it was going to be to them when she was gone and they were all alone again. For her heart was so full of her own joy she could not think a sad thought.

But one afternoon she came home from school a little earlier than usual. Opening the door very softly that she might come on Mother Marshall and surprise her, she heard voices in the dining-room, and paused to see if there was company.

"It's going to be mighty hard to have Bonnie leave us," said Father Marshall, with a wistful quaver.

There was a soft sigh over by the window, then Mother Marshall: "Yes, Father, but we mustn't think about it, or the next thing we know we'll let her see it. She's the kind of girl that would turn around and say she couldn't get married, perhaps, if she got it in her head we needed her. She's got a grand man, and I'm just as glad as I can be about it"—there was a gulp like a sob over by the window.—"I wouldn't spoil her happiness for anything in the world!" The voice took on a forced cheerfulness.

"Sure! We wouldn't want to do that!"

"It's 'most as bad as when Stephen was going away, though. I have to just shut my eyes when I go by her bedroom door and think about how we fixed it up for her and counted on how she'd look, and all. I just couldn't stand it. I had to shut the door and hurry down-stairs."

"Well, now, Mother, you mustn't feel that way. You know the Lord sent her first. Maybe He has some other plan."

"Oh, I know!" said Mother, briskly. "I guess we can leave that to Him; only seems like I can't bear to think of anybody else coming to be in her room."

"Oh no! no! We couldn't stand for that!" said Father, quickly. "We'd have to keep it for her—for them—when they come home to visit! If any other party comes along I reckon we'll just build out a bay window on the kitchen chamber, and fix that up. Now don't you worry, Mother. You know he promised to bring her home a lot, and it ain't as if he hadn't got money enough to travel, let alone a nottymobeel. I shouldn't wonder maybe if we could go see them, even, some time. We could get to see the university then, too, and go look at Steve's room. You'd like that, wouldn't you, Mother?"

Bonnie did not go into the dining-room to surprise them. Instead, she stole away down in the orchard to hide her tears.

A little later she saw the postman ride up to the letter-box on the gate-post and drop in a letter, and all else was forgotten.

Yes, from Paul! A lovely, big, thick letter!

Mother and Father Marshall and their sadness suddenly vanished from her thoughts, and she hurried back to a big stump in the orchard, where she often read her letters.



CHAPTER XXXV

DEAR BONNIE ROSE [she read, and smiled tenderly. He was always getting her a new name]:

"I've been to see Tennelly at last, and he's great! What do you think? He's not only coming to the wedding, but he's asked if I will let him be best man, unless I'd rather have Pat! I told Pat, and you ought to have heard him roar. "Fat chance! Me best man, with you two fellows around!" he said.

Father and my stepmother will come; but please tell Mother Marshall she needn't worry because they will only stay for the ceremony. I know she was a little troubled about my stepmother, lest things would seem plain to her; bless her dear heart! But she needn't at all, for she's a kindly soul, according to her lights. She's not to blame that they're only candle-lights instead of sunlight. They will come in their private car, which will be dropped off from the morning train and picked up by the night express at the Junction, so you see they'll have to leave for Sloan's Station early in the afternoon.

But the greatest news of all I heard to-night! Pat brought it, as usual. It beats all how he finds out pleasant things. You remember how we wished that Burns hadn't gone to China yet, so he could marry us? Well, he's coming back. He's been sent on some errand or other for the government, in company with a Chinaman or two, and he's due in San Francisco a week before the wedding. I've sent a wireless to ask him to stop over and take part in the ceremony. I was sure this would meet with your approval. Of course, we'll ask your minister out there to assist. You don't know how this pleases me. There's only one of the professors I'd have cared to ask, and he's with his wife, who is very ill at a sanitarium. It seems somehow as if Burns belonged to us, doesn't it, dear?

I stood to-night on the steps of the church and looked at a ray of the setting sun that was slanting between buildings and laying a finger of gold on the old dirty windows across the street till they blazed into sudden glory. As I looked the houses faded away, as they do in a moving picture, and gradually melted into a great open space that stretched a whole big block, all clear and green with thick velvety grass. There were trees in the space—a lot of them—and hammocks under some of them, with little children playing about. At the farthest end there were tennis-courts and a baseball diamond; and who do you think I saw teaching some boys to pitch, but Pat! On the other side of the street a big, old warehouse had been converted into a gymnasium with a swimming-pool.

All around that block there were model tenements, with thousands of windows; and light and air and cheerfulness. There were flowers in little beds between the curbing and the pavement, that the children could water and cultivate and pick. There was a fountain of filtered water in the center of the green, and a drinking-fountain at each corner of the block, but there wasn't a saloon in sight!

I looked around to my right, and the old stone house with its grimy face that belonged there had changed into a beautiful home with vines and flowers. There were windows everywhere jutting out with delightful unexpectedness, and just lovely green grass and more trees all the way to the corner! On the left, the old foundry had been cleansed and transformed, and had become a hospital belonging to the church. I couldn't help thinking right then and there what a grand doctor Tennelly would have made if he only hadn't been an aristocrat. The hospital was all white, and there was an ambulance belonging to it, and nurses who worked not only for money, but for the love of Christ. There wasn't a doctor in it who didn't know what the Presence of God meant, or couldn't point the way to be saved to a dying sinner.

Back of the church block, in place of the old shackly factories, there was one great model factory with the best modern equipment, and the eight-hour system in full swing. No little children working for a scanty living! No tired girls and women standing all day long! No foreman that did not have a love for humanity in his soul and some kind of an idea what it was to have the Presence of the living God in a factory!

I went back to the big stone house and discovered there was a great big living-room with a grand piano at one end, and a stone fireplace large enough for logs. A wide staircase led up to a gallery where many rooms opened off, rooms enough for every one we wanted, and a big special one for Father and Mother Marshall, winters, opening off in a suite, so that they could be to themselves when they got tired of us all. Of course, in summers they might want to go home sometimes and take us all with them; or maybe run down to the shore with us in an off year now and then. Break the news to them gently, darling, for I've set my heart on that house just as I saw it, and I hope they won't object.

There were other rooms, but they were vague, because I saw that you must have the key to them all yet, and I must wait till you come, to look into them.

Then I heard sweet sounds from the church, and, turning, I went in. Some one was playing the organ, high up in the dusky shadows of the gallery, and I knew it was you, Bonnie Rose, my darling! So I knelt in a pew and listened, with the Presence standing there between us. And as I knelt another vision came to me, a vision of the past! I remembered the days when I did not know God; when I sneered and argued and did all I could in my young and conceited way against Him. I remembered, too, the time He came to me in my illness and I began to believe; and the day I read that verse marked in Stephen's Bible, "He that believeth on the Son of God hath the witness in himself." I suddenly realized that that had been made true to me. I have the witness in my own heart that Christ is the Son of God, my Saviour! That His Presence is on earth and manifest to me at many times. No seeming variance of science, no quibble of the intellect, can ever disturb this faith on which my soul rests. It is more than a conviction; it is a perfect satisfaction! I KNOW! I may not be able to explain all mysteries, but I can never doubt again, because I know. The more I meet with modern skepticism, the more I am convinced that that is the only answer to it all: "He that doeth His will shall know of the doctrine," and that promise is fulfilled to all who have the will to believe.

All this came to me quite clearly as I knelt in the church in the sunset, while you were playing—was it "Rock of Ages"?—and a ray of the setting sun stole through the old yellow glass of the window in the organ-loft and lay on your hair like a crown, my Bonnie darling! My heart overflowed with gratitude at the great way life has opened up to me. That I, the least of His servants, should be honored by the love of this pearl of women!—

There was more of that letter, and Bonnie sat long on the stump reading and re-reading, with her face a glow of wonder and joy. But at last she got up and went to the house, bounding into the dining-room where Mother and Father Marshall were pretending to be busy about a lamp that didn't work right.

Down she sat with her letter and read it—at least as much as we have read—to the two sad old dears who were trying so hard to get ready for loneliness. But after that there was no more sadness in that house! No more tears nor wistful looks. Father whistled everywhere he went, till Mother told him he was like a boy again. Mother sang about her work whenever she was alone. For why should they be sad any more? There were good times still going in the world, and they were in them!

"Father!" whispered Mother, softly, that night, when she was supposed to be well on her way toward slumber. "Do you suppose the Lord heard us grumbling this afternoon, and sent that letter to make us ashamed of ourselves?"

"No," said Father, tenderly, "I think He just smiled to think what a big surprise He had ready for us. It doesn't pay to doubt God; it really doesn't!"



CHAPTER XXXVI

Pat was out with the ambulance. He had been taking a convalescent from the hospital down to the station and shipping him home to his good old mother in the country, to be nursed back to health. Pat often did little things like that that were utterly out of his province, just because he liked to do them.

Pat had seen his patient off and was threading his way through a crowded thoroughfare, with eyes alert for everything, when a little bright-red racer passed him at a furious rate, driven by a woman with a reckless hand. She shot by the ambulance like a rocket, and at the next corner came face to face with a great motor-truck that was thundering around the corner at a tempestuous speed. From the first glance there was no chance for the racer. It crumpled like a thing of paper and lay in bright splinters on the street, the lady tossed aside and motionless, with her head against the curbing.

The crowd closed in about her, and some one sent a call for the police. The crowd opened again as an officer signed to the ambulance to stand by, and kindly hands put the lady inside. Pat put on all speed to the home hospital, which was not far away, and was soon within its gates, with the house doctor and a nurse rushing out in answer to his signal.

There was a light in the church close at hand, although it was not yet dark. Bonnie was playing softly on the organ. Pat knew the hymn she was playing:

At evening, ere the sun was set, The sick, O Lord! around Thee lay; Oh, with what divers ills they met, Oh, with what joy they went away!

Once more 'tis eventide, and we, Oppressed with various ills, draw near—

Pat was following the melody in his mind with the words that were so often sung in the Church of the Presence of God at evening service. He jumped down from his driver's seat and went around to the back of the ambulance, where they were preparing to carry the patient into the building. He was wondering what sort it was this time that he had brought to the House of Healing. Then suddenly he saw her face and stopped short, with a suppressed exclamation.

There, huddled on the stretcher, in her costly sporting garments, with her long, dark lashes sweeping over her hard, little painted face, and a pinched look of suffering about her loose-hung baby mouth, lay Gila!

He knew her at once and drew back in horror. What had he done! Brought her here, this viper of evil that had crept into the garden of his friends and despoiled them of their joy! Why had he not looked at her before they started? Fool that he was! He might easily have taken her to another hospital instead of this one. He could do so yet.

But Courtland was standing on the steps, looking down at the huddled figure on the stretcher, with a strange expression of pity and tenderness in his face.

"I did not know! I did not see her before, Court!" stammered Pat. "I will take her somewhere else now before she has been disturbed."

"No, Pat, it's all right! It is fitting that she should come to us. I'm glad you found her. You must have been led! Call Bonnie, please. And, Pat, watch for Nelly and take him into my study. He was coming down on the Boston express. Let me know as soon as he gets here."

Courtland went swiftly into the hospital. Pat looked after him for a moment with a great light of love in his eyes, and realized for the first time what was meant by the expulsive power of a new affection. Court hadn't minded seeing Gila in the least on his own account. He was only thinking of Tennelly. Poor Nelly! What would he do?

There was no hope for Gila from the first. There had been an injury to the spine, and it was only a question of hours how long she had to stay.

It was Bonnie's face upon which the great dark eyes first opened in consciousness again. Bonnie in soft, white garments sitting beside the bed, watching. A strange contraction of fear and hate passed over her face as she looked, and she spoke in an insolent, sharp little voice, weak as a sick bird's chirp.

"Who sent you here?" she demanded.

"God," said Bonnie, gently, without an instant's hesitation.

A startled look came into Gila's eyes. "God! What does He want with me? Has He sent you here to torment me? I know you, who you are! You are that poor girl that Paul picked up in the street. You are come to pay me back!"

Bonnie's face was full of tenderness. "No, dear! That is all passed. I've just come to bring you a message from God."

"God! What have I to do with God?" A quiver of anguish passed over the weird little face. "I hate God! He hates me! Am I dead, then, that He sends me messages?"

"No, you are not dead. And God does not hate you. Listen! He says, 'I have loved you with an everlasting love.' That's the message that He sends. He is here now. He wants you to give attention to Him!"

The little blanched face on the pillow tightened and hardened in fear once more. "That's that awful Presence again! The Presence! The Presence! I've been trying to get away from it for three years, and it's pursued me everywhere! Now I'm caught like a rat in a trap and can't get away! If I'm not dead, then I must be dying, or you wouldn't dare talk to me this awful way! I am dying! And you think I'm going to hell!" Her shrill voice rose almost to a scream.

Above the sound, Bonnie's calm, clear voice dominated with a sudden quieting hush. Courtland, standing with the doctor and Tennelly just outside the partly open door, was thrilled with the sweetness of it, as if some supernatural power were given to her at this trying time.

"Listen, Gila! This is what He says: 'God sent not His Son into the world to condemn the world, but that the world through Him might be saved.... God so loved the world that He gave His only Begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.' He wants you to believe now that He loves you and wants to save you."

"But He couldn't!" said Gila, with the old petulant tone. "I've hated Him all my life! I hate Him now! And I've never been good! I couldn't be good! I don't want to be good! I want to do just what I please! And I will! I won't hear you talk this way! I want to get up! Why does my body feel so queer and numb, as if it wasn't there? Am I dying now? Answer me quick! Am I dying? I know I am. I'm dying and you won't tell me! I'm dying and I'm afraid! I'M AFRAID!"

One piercing scream after another rang out through the corridors. In vain did Bonnie and the nurse seek to soothe her. The high, excited voice raved on:

"I'm afraid to die! I'm afraid of that Presence! Send for Paul Courtland! He tried to tell me once, and I wouldn't hear! I made him choose between me and God! And now I'm going to be punished!"

"Listen, dear!" went on Bonnie's steady, tender voice. "God doesn't want to punish. He wants to save. He is waiting to forgive you if you will let Him!"

Something in her low-spoken words caught and held the attention of the soul in mortal anguish. Gila fixed her great, anguishing eyes on Bonnie.

"Forgive! Forgive! How could anybody forgive all I've done! You don't know anything about such things"—half contemptuously.—"You've always been goody-good! I can see it in your look. You don't know what it is to have men making fools of themselves over you! You don't know all I've done! I've been what they call a sinner! I sent away the only man I ever loved because I was jealous of God! I broke the heart of the man who loved me because I got tired of him and his everlasting perfection! I hated the idea of being a mother, and when my child came I deserted her! I would have killed her if I had dared! I went away with a bad man! And when I got tired of him I took the first way that opened to get away from him! God doesn't forgive things like that! I didn't expect He would when I did them. But it wasn't fair not to let me live out my life! I'm too young to die! And I'm afraid! I'm AFRAID!"

"Yes. God forgives all those things! There was a woman once who had been like that, and Jesus forgave her. He will forgive you if you ask Him. But He can't forgive you unless you are sorry and really want Him to. He says, 'Though your sins be as scarlet they shall be as white as snow; and though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool,' but you have to be sorry first that you sinned. He can't forgive you if you aren't sorry."

"Sorry! Sorry!" Gila's laugh rang out mirthlessly and echoed in the high, white room. "Oh, I'm sorry, all right! What do you think I am? Do you think I've been happy? Don't you know that I've suffered torments? Everything has turned to ashes that I've touched! I've gone everywhere and done everything to try to forget myself, but always there was that awful Presence chasing me! Standing in my way everywhere I turned! Driving me! Always driving me toward hell! I've tried drowning my thoughts with cocktails and dope, but always when it wore off there would be the Presence of God pursuing me! Do you mean to tell me there is forgiveness for me with Him?"

Her breath was coming in painful gasps as she screamed out the words as the nurse leaned over and gave her a quieting draught.

Bonnie, in a low, clear voice, began to repeat Bible verses:

"The blood of Jesus Christ His Son cleanseth us from all sin!

"As far as the East is from the West, so far hath He removed our transgressions from us.

"I, even I, am he that blotteth out thy transgressions for mine own sake, and will not remember thy sins.

"If we confess our sins He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness."

Gila listened with wondering, incredulous eyes, like the eyes of a frightened, naughty child who scarcely understood what was being said and was in a frenzy of fear.

"Oh, if Paul Courtland were here he would tell me if this is true!" Gila cried at last.

Instantly, from out the shadow of the doorway, stepped Courtland, and stood at the foot of the bed where she could see him, looking steadily at the dying girl for a moment, and then lifting his eyes, as if to One who stood just beside her:

"O Jesus Christ! who came to save, come close to this poor little wandering child of Thine and show her that she is forgiven! Take her gently by the hand and help her to see Thee, how loving Thou art! Help her to understand how Thou didst come to earth and die to take her place of punishment so that she might be forgiven! Open her eyes to comprehend what love like that can be!"

Gila turned startled eyes on Courtland as she heard his voice, strong, beseeching, tender, intimate with God! She lay listening, watching his illumined face as he prayed. Watched and listened as one who suddenly sees a ray of light where all was darkness; till gradually the tenseness and pain faded from her face and a surprised calm came to take its place.

The strong voice went on, talking with the Saviour about what He had done for this poor erring one, till with a sigh, like a tired child, the eyelids dropped over her frightened eyes and a look of peace began to dawn.

While the prayer had been going on, Tennelly, with his little girl in his arms, had slipped silently into the room and stood with bowed head looking with anguished eyes at the wreck of the beautiful girl who was once his wife.

Suddenly, as if alive to subtle influences, Gila opened her great eyes again and looked straight at Tennelly and the baby! A dart of consciousness came into her gaze and something like a wave of anguish passed over her face. She made a piteous, helpless movement with the little jeweled hands that lay limply on the coverlet, and murmured one word, with pleading in her eyes:

"Forgive!"

Courtland had ceased praying and the room was very still till Bonnie, just outside the door, began to sing, softly:

"Rock of Ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in Thee! Let the water and the blood From Thy riven side which flowed Be of sin the double cure, Save me from its guilt and power!"

Suddenly little Doris, who had been looking down, with wondering baby solemnity on the strange scene, leaned forward and pointed to the bed.

"Pitty mamma dawn as'eep!" she said, softly; and with a groan Tennelly sank with her to his knees beside the bed. Courtland, kneeling a little way off, spoke out once more:

"Lord Jesus, the Saviour of the world, we leave her with Thy tender mercy!"

As if a visible sign of assent had been asked, the setting sun suddenly dropped lower, touching into blazing glory the golden cross on the church, and threw its reflection upon the wall at the head of the bed just over the white face of the dead.

The baby saw and pointed once again. "Pitty! Pitty! Papa, see!"

The sorrowing father lifted his eyes to the golden symbol of salvation, and Courtland, standing at the foot of the bed, said, softly:

"I am the resurrection and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live."

THE END



"The Books You Like to Read at the Price You Like to Pay"

There Are Two Sides to Everything—

—including the wrapper which covers every Grosset & Dunlap book. When you feel in the mood for a good romance, refer to the carefully selected list of modern fiction comprising most of the successes by prominent writers of the day which is printed on the back of every Grosset & Dunlap book wrapper.

You will find more than five hundred titles to choose from—books for every mood and every taste and every pocket-book.

Don't forget the other side, but in case the wrapper is lost, write to the publishers for a complete catalog.

* * * * *

There is a Grosset & Dunlap Book for every mood and for every taste



EDGAR RICE BURROUGH'S NOVELS

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list.

TARZAN THE UNTAMED

Tells of Tarzan's return to the life of the ape-man in his search for vengeance on those who took from him his wife and home.

JUNGLE TALES OF TARZAN

Records the many wonderful exploits by which Tarzan proves his right to ape kingship.

A PRINCESS OF MARS

Forty-three million miles from the earth—a succession of the weirdest and most astounding adventures in fiction. John Carter, American, finds himself on the planet Mars, battling for a beautiful woman, with the Green Men of Mars, terrible creatures fifteen feet high, mounted on horses like dragons.

THE GODS OF MARS

Continuing John Carter's adventures on the Planet Mars, in which he does battle against the ferocious "plant men," creatures whose mighty tails swished their victims to instant death, and defies Issus, the terrible Goddess of Death, whom all Mars worships and reveres.

THE WARLORD OF MARS

Old acquaintances, made in the two other stories, reappear, Tars Tarkas, Tardos Mors and others. There is a happy ending to the story in the union of the Warlord, the title conferred upon John Carter, with Dejah Thoris.

THUVIA, MAID OF MARS

The fourth volume of the series. The story centers around the adventures of Carthoris, the son of John Carter and Thuvia, daughter of a Martian Emperor.

GROSSET & DUNLAP. PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK



JAMES OLIVER CURWOOD'S STORIES OF ADVENTURE

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list.

THE RIVER'S END

A story of the Royal Mounted Police.

THE GOLDEN SNARE

Thrilling adventures in the Far Northland.

NOMADS OF THE NORTH

The story of a bear-cub and a dog.

KAZAN

The tale of a "quarter-strain wolf and three-quarters husky" torn between the call of the human and his wild mate.

BAREE, SON OF KAZAN

The story of the son of the blind Grey Wolf and the gallant part he played in the lives of a man and a woman.

THE COURAGE OF CAPTAIN PLUM

The story of the King of Beaver Island, a Mormon colony, and his battle with Captain Plum.

THE DANGER TRAIL

A tale of love, Indian vengeance, and a mystery of the North.

THE HUNTED WOMAN

A tale of a great fight in the "valley of gold" for a woman.

THE FLOWER OF THE NORTH

The story of Fort o' God, where the wild flavor of the wilderness is blended with the courtly atmosphere of France.

THE GRIZZLY KING

The story of Thor, the big grizzly.

ISOBEL

A love story of the Far North.

THE WOLF HUNTERS

A thrilling tale of adventure in the Canadian wilderness.

THE GOLD HUNTERS

The story of adventure in the Hudson Bay wilds.

THE COURAGE OF MARGE O'DOONE

Filled with exciting incidents in the land of strong men and women.

BACK TO GOD'S COUNTRY

A thrilling story of the Far North. The great Photoplay was made from this book.

GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK



ZANE GREY'S NOVELS

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list.

THE MAN OF THE FOREST THE DESERT OF WHEAT THE U.P. TRAIL WILDFIRE THE BORDER LEGION THE RAINBOW TRAIL THE HERITAGE OF THE DESERT RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS THE LAST OF THE PLAINSMEN THE LONE STAR RANGER DESERT GOLD BETTY ZANE

* * * * *

LAST OF THE GREAT SCOUTS

The life story of "Buffalo Bill" by his sister Helen Cody Wetmore, with Foreword and conclusion by Zane Grey.

ZANE GREY'S BOOKS FOR BOYS

KEN WARD IN THE JUNGLE THE YOUNG LION HUNTER THE YOUNG FORESTER THE YOUNG PITCHER THE SHORT STOP THE RED-HEADED OUTFIELD AND OTHER BASEBALL STORIES

GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK



PETER B. KYNE'S NOVELS

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list.

THE PRIDE OF PALOMAR

When two strong men clash and the under-dog has Irish blood in his veins—there's a tale that Kyne can tell! And "the girl" is also very much in evidence.

KINDRED OF THE DUST

Donald McKay, son of Hector McKay, millionaire lumber king, falls in love with "Nan of the Sawdust Pile," a charming girl who has been ostracized by her townsfolk.

THE VALLEY OF THE GIANTS

The fight of the Cardigans, father and son, to hold the Valley of the Giants against treachery. The reader finishes with a sense of having lived with big men and women in a big country.

CAPPY RICKS

The story of old Cappy Ricks and of Matt Peasley, the boy he tried to break because he knew the acid test was good for his soul.

WEBSTER: MAN'S MAN

In a little Jim Crow Republic in Central America, a man and a woman, hailing from the "States," met up with a revolution and for a while adventures and excitement came so thick and fast that their love affair had to wait for a lull in the game.

CAPTAIN SCRAGGS

This sea yarn recounts the adventures of three rapscallion sea-faring men—a Captain Scraggs, owner of the green vegetable freighter Maggie, Gibney the mate and McGuffney the engineer.

THE LONG CHANCE

A story fresh from the heart of the West, of San Pasqual, a sun-baked desert town, of Harley P. Hennage, the best gambler, the best and worst man of San Pasqual and of lovely Donna.

GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK



RUBY M. AYRES' NOVELS

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list.

RICHARD CHATTERTON

A fascinating story in which love and jealousy play strange tricks with women's souls.

A BACHELOR HUSBAND

Can a woman love two men at the same time?

In its solving of this particular variety of triangle "A Bachelor Husband" will particularly interest, and strangely enough, without one shock to the most conventional minded.

THE SCAR

With fine comprehension and insight the author shows a terrific contrast between the woman whose love was of the flesh and one whose love was of the spirit.

THE MARRIAGE OF BARRY WICKLOW

Here is a man and woman who, marrying for love, yet try to build their wedded life upon a gospel of hate for each other and yet win back to a greater love for each other in the end.

THE UPHILL ROAD

The heroine of this story was a consort of thieves. The man was fine, clean, fresh from the West. It is a story of strength and passion.

WINDS OF THE WORLD

Jill, a poor little typist, marries the great Henry Sturgess and inherits millions, but not happiness. Then at last—but we must leave that to Ruby M. Ayres to tell you as only she can.

THE SECOND HONEYMOON

In this story the author has produced a book which no one who has loved or hopes to love can afford to miss. The story fairly leaps from climax to climax.

THE PHANTOM LOVER

Have you not often heard of someone being in love with love rather than the person they believed the object of their affections? That was Esther! But she passes through the crisis into a deep and profound love.

GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK



FLORENCE L. BARCLAY'S NOVELS

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list.

THE WHITE LADIES OF WORCESTER

A novel of the 12th Century. The heroine, believing she had lost her lover, enters a convent. He returns, and interesting developments follow.

THE UPAS TREE

A love story of rare charm. It deals with a successful author and his wife.

THROUGH THE POSTERN GATE

The story of a seven day courtship, in which the discrepancy in ages vanished into insignificance before the convincing demonstration of abiding love.

THE ROSARY

The story of a young artist who is reputed to love beauty above all else in the world, but who, when blinded through an accident, gains life's greatest happiness. A rare story of the great passion of two real people superbly capable of love, its sacrifices and its exceeding reward.

THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE

The lovely young Lady Ingleby, recently widowed by the death of a husband who never understood her, meets a fine, clean young chap who is ignorant of her title and they fall deeply in love with each other. When he learns her real identity a situation of singular power is developed.

THE BROKEN HALO

The story of a young man whose religious belief was shattered in childhood and restored to him by the little white lady, many years older than himself, to whom he is passionately devoted.

THE FOLLOWING OF THE STAR

The story of a young missionary, who, about to start for Africa, marries wealthy Diana Rivers, in order to help her fulfill the conditions of her uncle's will, and how they finally come to love each other and are reunited after experiences that soften and purify.

GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK



ETHEL M. DELL'S NOVELS

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list.

THE LAMP IN THE DESERT

The scene of this splendid story is laid in India and tells of the lamp of love that continues to shine through all sorts of tribulations to final happiness.

GREATHEART

The story of a cripple whose deformed body conceals a noble soul.

THE HUNDREDTH CHANCE

A hero who worked to win even when there was only "a hundredth chance."

THE SWINDLER

The story of a "bad man's" soul revealed by woman's faith.

THE TIDAL WAVE

Tales of love and of women who learned to know the true from the false.

THE SAFETY CURTAIN

A very vivid love story of India. The volume also contains four other long stories of equal interest.

GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK

THE END