recalled him to the uneasiness within his soul for which he had sought
solace in the church service. He became silent again, and, strolling
away into Stephen's room and closing the door, sat down.

There was something strange about that room. The Presence seemed always
to be there. It hadn't made itself felt in the church at all, as he had
half hoped it would. He had taken Tennelly with him because he wanted
something tangible, friendly, sane, from the world he knew, to give him
ballast. If the Presence had been in the 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