its beauty once more.

It was like this when he began to read the Bible with the idea that it
was the Word of God. Things flashed out at him that fairly dazzled his
thoughts; living, palpitating things, as if they were hidden of a
purpose to be discovered only by him who cared to search. Hidden truths
came to light that filled his soul with wonder. Gradually he understood
that Belief was the touchstone by which all these treasures were to be
revealed. Everywhere he found it, that belief in Christ was a condition
to all the blessings promised. He read of hearts hardened and eyes
blinded because of unbelief, and came to see that unbelief was something
a man was responsible for, not a condition which settled down upon him,
and he could not help. Belief was a deliberate act of the will. It was
not a theory, nor an intellectual affirmation; it was a position taken,
which necessarily must pass into action of some kind. He began to see
that without this deliberate belief it was impossible for man to know
the things which are purely spiritual. It was the condition necessary
for revelation. He was fascinated with the pursuit of this new study.

Wittemore came to his room one evening, his face grayer, more strained
and horse-like than ever. Wittemore's mother had made another partial
recovery and insisted on his return to college. He was plodding
patiently, breathlessly along in his classes, trying to catch up again.
He had paid Courtland back part of the money he borrowed, and was
gradually paying the rest in small instalments. Courtland hated to take
it, but saw that it would hurt him to refuse it; so he had fallen into a
habit of stopping now and then to talk about his settlement work, just
to show a little friendly interest in him. Wittemore had responded with
a quiet wistfulness and a patient hovering in the background that
touched the other man's heart deeply.

"I've just come from my rounds," said Wittemore, sitting down,
apologetically, on the edge of a chair. "That old lady you carried the
medicine to--she's been telling me how you made tea and toast!" He
paused and looked embarrassed.

"Yes," smiled Courtland. "How's she getting on? Any better?"

"No," said Wittemore, the hopeless gray look settling about his
sensitive mouth. "She'll never be any better. She's dying!"

"Well," said Courtland, "that'll be a pleasant change for her, I guess."

Wittemore winced. Death had no pleasant associations for him. "She told