Prayer was to him a thing utterly apart from this cry of
his soul, this longing for an understanding with God.
He walked on through streets he did not know, passing men and women with
worn and haggard faces, tattered garments, and discouraged mien; and
always that cry came in his soul, "Oh, if they only knew!" There was the
Presence by his side, and men passed by and saw Him not!
He was walking in the general direction of the Good Samaritan Hospital,
just as any one would walk with a friend through a strange place and
accommodate his going to the man who was guiding him. All the way there
seemed to be a sort of intercourse between himself and his Companion.
His soul was putting forth great questions that he would some day take
up in detail and go over little by little, as one will verify a problem
that one has worked out. But now he was working it out, becoming
satisfied in his soul that this was the only way to solve the great
otherwise unanswerable problems of the universe.
They had gone for perhaps three miles or more from the morgue, traveling
for the most part through narrow streets crowded full of small
dwelling-houses interspersed by cheap stores and saloons. The night
lowered! the stars were not on duty. A cold wind from the river swept
around corners, reminding him of the dripping yellow hair of the girl in
the morgue. It cut like a knife through Courtland's heavy overcoat and
made him wish he had brought his muffler.
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