The next morning Courtland awoke with a pleasant sensation of eagerness to see what life had in store for him. Was this really the wonderful experience of love into which he had begun to enter? He thought of Gila all in halos now. The questionings and unpleasantnesses were forgotten. He told himself that she would one day see and understand the wonderful experience through which he had been passing. He would tell her just as soon as possible. Not to-day, for he would be busy, and she had engagements Tuesday evening and all day Wednesday. He had not noticed the subtle withdrawing as she told him, the quick, furtive calculation in her glance. She knew how to make coming to her a privilege. Just because she had let him think he saw a bit of her heart that night, she meant to hold him off. Not too long, for he was not sufficiently bound to her to be safe from forgetting, but just long enough to whet his eagerness. Her former experience in such matters had taught her to expect that he would probably call her up and beg to see her sooner, when she might relent if he was humble enough. And she had not misjudged him. He was looking forward to Thursday as a bright, particular goal, planning what he would say to her, wondering if his heart would bound as it had when she looked at him Sunday night, and if the strange sweetness that seemed about to be settling upon him would last. Before he left his room that morning he did something he had never done before in college; he locked his door and knelt beside his bed to pray, with a strong, sweet sense of the Presence standing beside him, and breathing power into his soul. He had not much to ask for himself. He simply craved that Presence, and it had never seemed so close. As he unlocked his door and hurried down the hall to the dining-room he marveled that a thing so sweet had been so long neglected from his life. Prayer! How he had sneered at it! Yet it was a reasonable thing, after all, now that he had come believing. Nurse Wright was on hand promptly at the place appointed. She was armed with a list of written instructions. They went to work at once, setting aside the things to be sold; folding and packing the scanty wardrobe, and putting by themselves the clothes and things that had belonged to little Aleck. One incident brought tears to their eyes. In moving out the trunk a large pasteboard box fell down, and the contents dropped upon the floor. The nurse stooped to pick up the things, some pieces of an old overcoat of fine, dark-blue material, cut into small garments, basted, ready to be sewed; a tissue-paper pattern in a printed envelope marked "Boy's suit." Courtland lifted up the cover to put it on again, and there they saw, in a child's stiff little printing letters, the inscription, "Aleck's new Sunday suit," and underneath, like a subtitle, in smaller letters, "Made out of father's best overcoat." "Poor little kid!" said Courtland. "He never got to wear it!"