That sentence never got finished. The boy dropped down on the deck and clasped his knees. Doane, very gravely, considered him. He was young, fresh, slim. He had changed, definitely; a degree of quiet had come to him. And there could be no mistaking the unearthly light in his eyes. The love that is color and sunshine and exquisite song had touched and transformed him.
Doane could not speak. He waited. Young Kane finally brought himself with obvious, earnest effort in a sense to earth. But his voice was unsteady in a boyish way.
“Mr. Doane,” he asked, “do you believe in miracles?”
Thoughtfully, deliberately, Doane bowed his great head. “I am forced to,” he replied.
“You've seen men change—from dirty, selfish brutes, I mean, to something decent, worth while?”
“Many times.”
“Really?.... But does it have to be religion?”
“I don't knew.”
“Can it be love? The influence of a woman, I mean—a girl?”
“Might that not be more or less the same thing?”