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
me you prayed for her! She wants you to do it again!"
It was plain he thought the praying had been a sort of joke with
Courtland.
Courtland looked up, the color rising slowly in his face. He saw the
accusation in Wittemore's sad eyes.
Pages:
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259