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Updated: May 7, 2025
There didn't even appear to be a window, though he afterward discovered one opening into an air-shaft. He stood hesitating within the room, blinking and trying to see what was about him. "Be that you, Mr. Widymer?" asked a feeble voice from the opposite corner. "Wittemore couldn't come. He had a telegram that his mother is dying and he had to get the train. He sent me with the medicine."
"She'll never be any better. She's dying!" "Well," said Courtland, "that'll be a pleasant change for her, I guess." Wittemore winced. Death had no pleasant associations for him. "She told me you prayed for her! She wants you to do it again!" It was plain he thought the praying had been a sort of joke with Courtland. Courtland looked up, the color rising slowly in his face.
And the fellows had let him live that way! To think that a few paltry greenbacks should bring tears! A few minutes later he stood looking after the whirling taxi as it bore away Wittemore into the darkness of the evening street, his heart pounding with several new emotions. Witless Abner for one! What a surprise he had been!
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.
"I've just come from my rounds," said Wittemore, sitting down, apologetically, on the edge of a chair. "That old lady you carried the medicine to she's been telling me how you made tea and toast!" He paused and looked embarrassed. "Yes," smiled Courtland. "How's she getting on? Any better?" "No," said Wittemore, the hopeless gray look settling about his sensitive mouth.
Oh, the beautiful face of the suffering girl! Fear and sorrow and suffering and death everywhere! Wittemore hurrying to his dying mother! The old woman lying on her bed of pain! But there had been glory in that dark old room when he left it, the glory of a Presence! Ah! Where was the Presence now? How could He bear all this? The Christ!
It was Wittemore that had started all this queer side-track of philanthropy; that had sent him off to make toast for old women and manage funerals for strange young girls.
I'm sort of an amateur yet, but I'll do my best." They went out into the mist and murk of a spring thaw. Wittemore never forgot that night's experience the prayer, and the walk home again through the fog. The old woman died at dawning. Courtland spent much time thinking about Gila these days. His whole soul was wrapped up in the desire that she might understand.
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