"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.
"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: