Your
reference to Marshall was a cracker-jack! The faculty ought to have
heard it."
Courtland read it wearily, closed his eyes for a minute, passed his hand
over his brow, then he handed the note over to Pat. The understanding
between the two was very deep and tender now.
Pat read without comment, but the frown on his brow matched the set of
his big jaw. When he spoke again it was to tell Courtland of the job he
had been offered as athletic coach in a preparatory school in the same
neighborhood with the theological seminary where Courtland had decided
to study. Courtland listened without hearing and smiled wearily. He was
entering his Gethsemane. Neither one of them slept much that night.
In the early dawning Courtland arose, dressed, and silently stole out of
the room, down through the sleeping city, out to the country, where he
had gone once before when trouble struck him. It seemed to him he must
get away to breathe, he must go where he and God could be alone.
Pat understood. He only waited till Courtland was gone to fling on his
clothes in a hurry and be after him. He had noted from the window the
direction taken, and guessed where he would be.
On and on walked Courtland with the burning sorrow in his soul; out
through the heated city, over the miles of dusty road, his feet finding
their way without apparent direction from his mind; out to the stream,
and the path where wild flowers and grasses had strewn the ground in
springtime; gay now with white and purple asters.
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