The Rev. John Burns was small, sandy, homely, with kind, twinkling
red-brown eyes, a wide mouth, an ugly nose, and freckles; but he had a
smile that was cordiality itself, and a great big paw that gripped a
real welcome.

Courtland explained that he had come about the funeral. He felt
embarrassed because there really wasn't anything to say. He had given
all necessary details over the 'phone, but the kind, attentive eyes were
sympathetic, and he found himself telling the story of the tragedy. He
liked the way the minister received it. It was the way a minister should
be to people in their need.

"You are a relative?" asked Burns as Courtland got up to go.

"No." Then he hesitated. For some reason he could not bear to say he was
an utter stranger to the lonely girl. "No, only a friend," he finished.
"A--a--kind of neighbor!" he added, lamely, trying to explain the
situation to himself.

"A sort of a Christ-friend, perhaps?" The kind, red-brown eyes seemed to
search into his soul and understand. The homely, freckled face lit with
a rare smile.

Courtland gave the man a keen, hungry look. He felt strangely drawn to
him and a quick light of brotherhood darted into his eyes. His fingers
answered the friendly grasp of the other as they parted, and he went
out feeling that somehow _there_ was a man that was different; a man he
would like to know better and study carefully. That man must have had
some experience! He must know Christ! Had he ever felt the Presence? he
wondered. He would like to ask him, but then how would one go about it