"Of course I know what you think of such things. I've heard you in the
class. I don't believe in them any more myself, either, now."
Wittemore's voice had a trail of hopelessness in it. "But somehow I
couldn't quite bring myself to make a mockery of prayer, even to please
that old woman. You see _my mother still believes in prayer_!" He spoke
apologetically, as of a dear one who had lacked advantages.
"But _I do_ believe in prayer!" said Courtland, earnestly. "What you
heard me say in class was before I understood."
"Before you understood?" Wittemore looked puzzled.
"Listen, Wittemore. Things are all different now. I've met Jesus Christ
and I've got my eyes open. I was blind before, but since I've felt the
Presence everything has been different."
And then he told the story of his experience. He did not make a long
story of it. He gave brief facts, and when it was finished Wittemore
dropped his face into his hands and groaned:
"I'd give anything if I could believe all that again," came from between
his long bony fingers. "It's breaking my mother's heart to have me leave
the faith!"
The slick hay-like hair fell in wisps over his hands, his high, bony
shoulders were hunched despairingly over Courtland's study table. He was
a great, pitiful object.
"Why don't you, then?" said Courtland, getting up and going to the
closet for his overcoat. "It's up to you, you know. You _can_! God can't
do it for you, and of course there's nothing doing till you've taken
that step.
Pages:
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260