"When I preach my first sermon you may all come down and see," he replied, and that was all they could get out of him.
Courtland found that a lot had to be done to that church. Plaster was falling off in places, the pews were getting rickety. The pulpit needed doing over, and the floor had to be recarpeted. But it was wonderful what a difference it all made when it was done. Soft greens and browns replaced the faded red. The carpet was thick and soft, the cushions matched. Bonnie had given careful suggestions about it all.
"You could have got along without cushions, you know," said Pat, frugally, as he seated himself in appreciative comfort.
"I know," said Courtland, "but I want this to look like a church! Some day when we get the rest of the block and can tear down the buildings and have a little sunlight and air, we'll have some real windows with wonderful gospel stories on them, but these will do for now. There's got to be a pipe-organ some day, and Bonnie will play it!"
Pat always glowed when Courtland spoke of Bonnie. He never had ceased to be thankful that Courtland escaped from Gila's machinations. But that very afternoon, as Courtland was preparing to hurry to the train, there came a note from Pat, who had gone ahead, on an errand:
Dear Court,—Tennelly's in trouble. He's up at his old rooms. He wants you. I'll wait for you down in the office.
Pat.