Barnes would never forget how, once while this was happening, he had turned his head and looked over at Jesus, and the clear, calm, compelling look had drawn him like a cable of steel. Drawn him into that personal discipleship which he now knew nothing could ever break. And his last view of Jesus had been that closing glimpse of him as he walked through the crowd, his arms around the shoulders of two young men who were weeping, while the people, in perfect stillness, opened a way for them.

And Barnes knew, as he sat there in the office of the Raymond Gazette, facing its editor, the rumble of the city coming in through the windows . . . he knew that nothing in all the world was so mighty as this change in purpose and passion that had come to him, and that henceforth all things were to be governed by this new definition of Christian discipleship. He knew he was “born again,” in that greatest of all miracles men have ever experienced, and that he was no more like the Barnes of last week than the robber on the cross is now like that brutal, bloody figure that hung on the cross by the side of the Son of God.

But Jasper Carter was disturbed by what he saw in Barnes, and he anticipated something that might come up in the future. He turned in his chair and began to pick up some papers. “When that cub Logan comes in, send him here,” was all he remarked to Barnes.

“He has not come back since you sent him to Mr. Maxwell’s on Saturday.”

“Send him in if he does come back,” Carter said shortly, and Barnes went out.

The routine of the city editor went on, interrupted this morning in the case of Mr. Carter by the thought of what had happened to Barnes. More than once, he put down the papers he was reading and stared across the litter on his desk at the vision of the old Barnes transformed by the new look. Then he would shake his head and resume his work.

At the end of an hour, he was called on the phone by Barnes from the reporters’ room. “Logan is here. Do you want to see him now?”

“Send him right up.”

A minute later, Logan came in. The cub reporter looked sullen and disheveled. He was not shaved, and his general appearance told stories of failure.

“Well,” snapped out Carter in his worst humor, “what have you got?”

“Nothing.”

“Then that’s what you’ll get. Where have you been?”

“I went up to the minister’s, but he wouldn’t let me in. I stayed up all night around the house, but he—the man—never came out. I got a seat on the platform yesterday with the folks that couldn’t get any chairs, and I snapped him twice, and I tried him again outdoors.”

“Well?”

“Someone’s monkeying with my camera.” The boy spoke with sullen anger. “I don’t get anything. I’ve changed my plates—”