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Pat whistled "Rock of Ages" softly under his breath most of the way. They sat for a time, talking, stiffly, as if they hardly knew one another, telling the news. Bill Ward had gone to California to look into a big land deal in which his father was interested. Wittemore's mother had died and he wasn't coming back next year for his senior year. It was all surface talk.
If I understood all the whys and wherefores of how this universe is run I'd be great enough to be a God myself." "But if God is omniscient I can't see how He can let some things go on! He must be limited in power or He'd never let some things happen if He's a good God!" Wittemore's voice had a plaintive sound. "Well, how do you know that? In the first place, how can you be sure what is a calamity?
Wittemore came to his room one evening, his face grayer, more strained and horse-like than ever. Wittemore's mother had made another partial recovery and insisted on his return to college. He was plodding patiently, breathlessly along in his classes, trying to catch up again. He had paid Courtland back part of the money he borrowed, and was gradually paying the rest in small instalments.
If so, there must be depths to Wittemore's nature that were worth sounding. He drew his handkerchief from his inner pocket, and as he did so a whiff of violets came remindingly, but he paid no heed. Gila's letter lay in his pocket, still unread. The antiseptics were at work upon his senses and the violets could not reach him.
Now he thrust a handful of bills into Wittemore's astonished hands. "There's fifty! Will that see you through? And I can send you more if you need it. Just wire me how much you want." Wittemore stood looking down at the bills, and tears began to run down his cheeks and splash upon them. Courtland felt his own eyes filling. What a pitiful, lonely life this had been!
He saw the accusation in Wittemore's sad eyes. "Of course I know what you think of such things. I've heard you in the class. I don't believe in them any more myself, either, now." Wittemore's voice had a trail of hopelessness in it. "But somehow I couldn't quite bring myself to make a mockery of prayer, even to please that old woman. You see my mother still believes in prayer!"
"He looks as if he'd seen a ghost!" said Tennelly, eying him critically. "Cut it out, boys," said Courtland, with a weary smile. "I've seen enough. Wittemore's called home. His mother's dying. I went an errand for him down in some of his slums and on the way back I just saw a little kid get killed. Pretty little kid, too, with long curls!" "Good night nurse!" said Pat from his couch.
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