Tim’s voice suddenly lowered before the last word, for the Faith Healer had broken down in a torrent of tears.
“Oh, my mother—O God!” he groaned.
“Say, that’s right—that’s right—go on,” said the other and drew back a little, and sat down on a log.
The man on his knees was convulsed with misery. Denton, the world, disappeared. He prayed in agony.
Presently Tim moved uneasily, then got up and walked about; and at last, with a strange, awed look, when an hour was past, he stole back into the shadow of the trees while still the wounded soul poured out its misery and repentance.
Time moved on. A curious shyness possessed Tim now, a thing which he had never felt in his life. He moved about self-consciously, awkwardly, until at last there was a sudden silence over by the brook.
Tim looked, and saw the face of the kneeling man cleared and quiet and shining. He hesitated, then stepped out, and came over.
“Have you got it?” he asked, quietly. “It’s noon now.”
“May God help me to redeem my past,” answered the other, in a new voice.
“You’ve got it—sure?” Tim’s voice was meditative.