"Wait!" said Courtland, gravely. "I must find out."
He stepped into a little cigar-store and asked some questions. "You were right, Pat," he said, when he came out. "The congregation has gone to the devil. They have moved up into the more fashionable part of town, and the church is for sale. There's only one member of the old church left down here. I'm going around to see him. Pat, that sign mustn't stay up there! It's a disgrace to God."
"What could you do about it?" Pat was puzzled.
"Do about it? Why, man, I can buy it if there isn't any other way!"
They went to see the church member, who proved to be a good old soul, but deaf and old and very poor. He said they had to give the church up; they couldn't make it pay. All the rich people had moved away. He shook his head sadly and told how he and his wife were married there. He hobbled over and showed them how to get in a side door.
The yellow afternoon sun was sifting through windows of cheap stained glass, and fell in mellow quiet upon the faded cushions and musty ingrain carpet. The place had that deserted look of having been abandoned, yet Courtland, as he stood in the shadow under the old balcony, seemed to see the Presence of the eternal God standing up there behind the pulpit, seemed to feel the hallowed memories of long ago, and scent the lingering incense of all the prayers that had gone up from all the souls who had worshiped there in the years that were past.
"They think an iron-foundry's going to buy it, or else some one may make a munition-factory out of it," the old man contributed. "This war's bringing a big change over things."
"Their plowshares into swords, their pruning-hooks into spears," chanted an unseen voice, sadly, behind Courtland. His face set sternly. He turned to Pat:
"I can't let that happen, old man!" he said. "I'm going to buy it if I can. Come, we'll go and look it up!"
Pat looked at his companion with awe. He had always known he was rich, but—to purchase a church as if it were a jack-knife! That sure was going some!