church, with Tennelly by his
side, he would have been sure it was not wholly a hallucination
connected with his memory of Stephen.

It was strange, for now that he sat there in that quiet room that had
once witnessed the trying out of a manly soul, and saw the calm eyes of
the plain mother on the wall opposite, and the true eyes of the dowdy
school-boy on the other wall, he was feeling the Presence again!

Why hadn't he felt its power in the church? Was it because of the
presence of such people in the temple as that little mean-souled
professor, whom everybody knew to be insincere from the crown of his
head to the soles of his sly little feet? Was it because the people were
cold and careless and didn't sing even with their lips, let alone their
hearts, but hired it all done for them?

And then there had been that call of his name when he was with Gila
Dare, as clear and distinct, like a friend he had left outside who had
grown tired of waiting, and worried about him. Why hadn't the sense of
the Presence gone with him into the room? Would a Presence like that be
afraid of hostile influences? No. If it was real and a Presence at all
it would be more powerful than any other influence in the universe. Then
why?

Could it be that he had gone deliberately into an influence that would
make it impossible for the Presence to guide?

Or was it possible that his own attitude toward that girl had been at
fault? He had gone to see her regarding her somewhat lightly. As a
gentleman he should regard no woman with disrespect. Her womanhood
should be honored by him even if she chose to dishonor it herself. If he
had gone to see Gila with a different attitude toward her, expecting
high, fine things of her, rather than merely to be amused by one whom he
scarcely regarded seriously, perhaps all this strange mental phenomena
would not have come to pass.

Finally he locked the door and knelt down with his head upon the worn
Bible. He had no idea of praying. Prayer meant to him but a repetition
of a form of words. There had been prayers in his childhood, brought
about by the maiden aunt who kept house for his father after his
mother's death, and assisted in bringing him up until he was old enough
to go away to boarding-school. They were a good deal of a bore, coming
as they did when he was sleepy. There was a long, vague one beginning,
"Our Father which art," in which he always had to be prompted. There
was, "Now I lay me," and "Matth