hurch away down in
the lower part of the city, to be addressed by the Rev. John Burns, and
he wanted to go. It might not be _the_ John Burns of course, but he
wanted to see.

Worn out with the events of the night, he slept soundly until ten. Then,
as if he had been an alarm-clock set for a certain moment, he awoke.

He lay there for a moment in the peace of the consciousness of something
good that had come to him. Then he knew that it was the Presence. It was
there, in his room. It would always be his. There might be laws
attending its coming and going--perhaps in some way concerned with his
own attitude--but he would learn them. It was enough to know the
possibility of that companionship all the days of one's life.

He couldn't reason out why a thing like that should give him so much
joy. It didn't seem sensible in the old way of reasoning--and yet,
didn't it? If it could be proved to the fellows that there was really a
God like that, companionable, reasonable, just, loving, forgiving, ready
to give Himself, wouldn't every one of them jump at the chance of
knowing Him personally, provided there was a way for them to know Him?
They claimed it had never been proved, never could be. But he knew it
could. It had been proved to him! That was the difference. That was the
greatness of it! And now he was going to church again to find out if the
Presence was ever there!

With a bound he was out of bed, shaved and dressed in an incredibly
short space of time, and, shouting to Tennelly, who took his feet
reluctantly from the window-seat, lowered the Sunday paper, and replied,
sulkily:

"Thunder and blazes! Who waked you up, you nut! I thought you were good
for another two hours!"

But they went to church.

Tennelly sat down on the hard wooden bench and accepted the worn
hymn-book that a small urchin presented him, with an amused stare which
finally bloomed into a full grin at Courtland.

"What's eating you, you blooming idiot! Where in thunder did you rake up
this dump, anyway? If you've got to go to church, why in the name of all
that's a bore can't you pick out a place where the congregation take a
bath once a month whether they need it or not?" he whispered, in a loud
growl.

But Courtland's eyes were already fixed on the bright, intelligent face
and red hair of the man who stood behind the cheap little pulpit. He was
the same John Burns! A window just behind the platform, set with crude
red and blue and yellow lig