eful selection; it has so
much to do with getting a good church afterward!"

"Father! You don't _understand_!" said Courtland, desperately, and then
sat back and wondered how he should begin. His father had been a
prominent member of the board of trustees in his own church for years,
but had he ever felt the Presence? In the days when Courtland used to
sit and kick his heels in the old family pew and be reproved for it by
his aunt, he never remembered any Presence. Doctor Bates's admirable
sermons had droned on over his head like the dreamy humming of bees in a
summer day. He couldn't remember a single thought that ever entered his
mind from that source. Was that all that came of studying theology?
Well, he would find out, and if it was, he would _quit_ it!

They were all comfortably glad to see him at home. His stepmother beamed
graciously upon him in between her social engagements, and his young
brothers swarmed over him, demanding all the athletic news. The house
was big, ornate, perfect in its way. It was good to eat such superior
cooking--that is, if he had been caring to eat anything just then; and
there was a certain freedom in life out of college that he knew he ought
to enjoy; but somehow he was restless. The girls he used to know
reminded him of Gila, or else had grown old and fat. The Country Club
didn't interest him in the least, nor did the family's plans for the
summer. It suited him not at all to be lionized on account of his
brilliant career at college. It bored him to go into society.

Sometimes, when he was alone in his room, he would think of the
situation and try to puzzle it out. It seemed as if he and the Presence
were there on a visit which neither of them enjoyed very much, and which
they were enduring for the sake of his father, who seemed gratified to
have his eldest son at home once more. But all the time Courtland was
chafing at the delay. He felt there was something he ought to be about.
There wasn't anything here. Not even the young brothers presented a very
hopeful field, or perhaps he didn't know how to go about it. He tried
telling them stories one day when he wheedled them off in the car with
him, and they listened eagerly when he told them of the fire in the
theater, Stephen Marshall's wonderful part in the rescue of many, and
his death. But when he went on and tried to tell them in boy language of
his own experience he could see them look strangely, critically at him,
and finally th