But now in this calm, rose-decked room, with the quiet eyes of the
simple mother looking down upon him, the resolutions in their
chaplet-of-palm framing, the age-old Bible thumbed and beloved, he knew
he had been wrong. He knew he would never be the same. That Presence,
Whoever, Whatever it was, had entered into his life. He could never
forget it; never be convinced that it was not; never be entirely
satisfied without it! He believed it was the Christ! Stephen Marshall's
Christ!

By and by he lifted up his head and opened the little worn Bible,
reverently, curiously, just to touch it and think how the other boy had
done. The soft, much-turned leaves fell open of themselves to a heavily
marked verse. There were many marked verses all through the book.

Courtland's eyes followed the words:

He that believeth on the Son of God hath the witness in
himself.

Could it be that this strange new sense of the Presence was "the
witness" here mentioned? He knew it like his sense of rhythm, or the
look of his mother's face, or the joy of a summer morning. It was not
anything he could analyze. One might argue that there was no such thing,
science might prove there was not, but he _knew_ it, had _seen_ it,
_felt_ it! He had the witness in himself. Was that what it meant?

With troubled brow he turned over the leaves again:

If any man will do his will, he shall know of the doctrine,
whether it be of God.