The days and weeks sped swiftly by, Katherine gradually becoming mentally acclimated, so to speak, amid an adverse environment. She did not make many acquaintances, for most of the students still held aloof from her; but she was content, even happy, for, with a stanch friend in Miss Reynolds, whom she found most congenial, and with whom she spent much of her leisure time, she did not miss other companionship so much.

Sadie, her roommate, was an affectionate and kind-hearted girl; but being of an indolent, ease-loving temperament, she was often a trial to Katherine, who loved order and system and believed it to be the duty of everyone to maintain them.

The girl had often attempted to lean upon her in the preparation of some of her lessons, now and then asking to see her problems in mathematics and her translations in German and Latin. But this was something that Katherine would not lend herself to, except in so far as, occasionally, to remind her of some forgotten point in a rule that would suggest a way to work out the knotty problem, or to give her a cue as to case or tense, that would assist in the translation.

While she shrank from wronging her, even in thought, there were times when she felt sure that she had taken advantage of her absence from the room to look over her papers and copy from them.

"I cannot let you see my work," she said one day, when, after repeated but unheeded hints, Sadie had asked her outright to allow her to look at her problems, saying that she had not had time to do them for herself. "It would not be honest," she continued, determined to settle the matter once for all; "it would simply be showing Miss Reynolds my work and claiming it as your own."

"Now I call that downright mean and disobliging," Sadie returned, with an injured air, but flushing uncomfortably and forgetting for the moment the many other acts of kindness Katherine had shown her. "Of course, I don't expect you to do it every day, but just this once, so that I can make a good showing in the class, could do no harm; and, honey, I'll promise to spend all my recreation time, this afternoon, going over the work for myself."

"But that would be like using a key, which is forbidden, you know. No, Sadie, I can't do it," Katherine reiterated, firmly but kindly. "It may seem 'disobliging' to you, but you know that is not my motive. I feel that I should be doing you a personal wrong, besides deceiving others, to allow you to lean on me in any such way. You have just as much time to prepare your lessons as I have; you are naturally quick and bright, and, if you would spend fewer hours in shopping and visiting, there is no reason why you cannot make as good a record for yourself as anyone else. One must do one's own work, or be robbed of mental capacity and strength if one depends upon another."

"Oh, shucks!" retorted Sadie, with an impatient shrug and a very red face, as she employed the Southern localism, "don't preach to me. I reckon my 'mental capacity' will hold out long enough to pull me through Hilton." And with this sharp and angry thrust she flounced out of the room, banging the door after her.

This was the first time there had been an open rupture between them, although on two or three occasions, when Katherine had quietly resisted being imposed upon beyond a certain limit, the girl had manifested something of her hot Southern temper. She had always gotten over it very quickly, however, and harmony had been restored.

Katherine regretted this "rift in the lute," but she knew that she was doing right, and, after a few minutes spent in silently declaring that "error is not power and is always overcome with good," she serenely resumed her study.

For several days the relations between the roommates were somewhat strained, although Katherine bravely strove to ignore the fact and conduct herself as usual; but Sadie spent very little time in her room, except during study hours, when no conversation was allowed, and manifested in other ways that she had neither forgotten nor forgiven.

Meantime Dorothy had been ailing more than usual, and, at Dr. Stanley's suggestion, a consultation of physicians was called, when the young man proposed and explained an operation which he had seen performed abroad, and which he had previously mentioned to his brother-in-law.

The matter was discussed at length, and Dorothy was subjected to a careful examination, and, though all shrank from such a trying ordeal for the delicate girl, the five learned M.D.s agreed that it was the one thing, humanly speaking, left to try. That was all that could be said about it—it might, or might not, prove a success.

It was a heart-burdened trio, composed of the father, mother and Dr. Stanley, that assembled in Prof. Seabrook's study, after the departure of the other physicians, to talk over the weighty matter.

"Well, Emelie, what have you to say about it?" the elder man inquired of his wife, in a voice that was husky from suppressed feeling.

"Oh, Will, pray do not put the responsibility of a decision upon me!" Mrs. Seabrook returned, with quivering lips.

"What does your heart dictate, dear?" her husband pursued, in a tender tone.

"Oh, my heart rebels against any further suffering," she said, with a convulsive sob.

Tears started to the eyes of both men at this pathetic wail from the mother, and which found its echo in each heart.

"Suppose," said Dr. Stanley, after a moment of painful silence, "we let Dorothy decide for herself. She is thoughtful beyond her years, and I think she should have a voice in the matter. Let the case be frankly stated to her, and we will abide by her decision. To be plain with you, I could not bring myself to perform this operation without her consent."

This proposal met with the approval of Prof. and Mrs. Seabrook, and both appeared relieved when the young man said he would take it upon himself to broach the subject to the girl.

This he did with great tact and tenderness, and, after a grave and quiet talk with her uncle, in whom she placed unbounded confidence, Dorothy said she was ready for anything that he regarded as necessary, for she knew that he had only her welfare at heart.

But Dr. Stanley said there must be a time of "building-up" to get adequate strength, meantime she must try to be as happy as possible and think only pleasant thoughts.

"I will try, Uncle Phillip," said the girl, with a trustful look in her eyes, "but"—a wistful expression sweeping over her thin face—"don't you think it is strange there is no such way of healing, nowadays, as when Jesus was here?"

"Yes, Dorrie, I do. I have often asked myself that same question," replied her companion, gravely.

"How lovely it would be if there was some one living now who could say to me, 'Take up thy bed and walk,' and I could do it," she continued, with a note of yearning in her voice that smote sharply on her listener's heart. "Don't you believe that when Jesus went away He meant to have people keep on healing, and teaching others how to heal, just as He had done?"

"Perhaps He did, pet; but you know everybody thinks that those were 'days of miracles,' which were simply intended to establish the divinity of the Savior and His authority to teach the new gospel."

"Yes, I know everybody says that whenever I ask anything about it," Dorothy returned, with an involuntary shrug of impatience, "but, somehow, it doesn't seem fair to me that all sick people cannot be healed in the same way. Jesus' way was certainly the best way to cure people—so much better than making them take horrid medicines and—and cutting them up with knives," and a shiver ran over her slight form as she concluded.

"Let us talk of something else, Dorrie. I do not like to have you dwell upon that subject," said her uncle, with a spasmodic contraction of his lips.

"Well, I will try not to," she said, with a faint sigh. "But truly, Uncle Phil, I can't help thinking that it was never intended that Jesus' way should be stopped any more than the 'new gospel,' as you call it, was meant to be forgotten, or lost, after His resurrection. I think that the healing was a part of the 'new gospel.'"

"Well, Miss Thoughtful, that is certainly a good argument," returned her companion, smiling into the earnest, uplifted eyes. "But who has been talking to you to set you to reasoning so deeply on the subject?"

He was wondering if Katherine Minturn might not have dropped a seed of her doctrine into the receptive mind of his niece.

"Nobody—I just thought it out for myself. You see I can't do much but think, and I often get very puzzled about God and the queer things He lets happen. You know it says in the Bible that He is 'too pure to behold Iniquity,' or evil—and 'does not regard it with any degree of allowance'; and yet there seems to be more sin, sickness and dreadful accidents than anything else in the world."

"It is a mystery, I confess; but what makes you think that Jesus intended that His way of healing should be continued after His ascension?" inquired her uncle, who was deeply interested in the child's reasoning.

"Why, you see, just before He went away He had a talk with His disciples and gave them some last commands. He told them to go everywhere and preach to everybody—to 'heal the sick, raise the dead, and cast out sin or devils.' Now, Uncle Phil, that command is all one—the first part of it says 'heal the sick, raise the dead,' then comes the rest of it—'cast out sin;' and I don't see what right people have to pick it to pieces and say He didn't mean them to obey any but the last part of it."

"I see," nodded the young man, as she paused to impress her thought upon him.

"Well, then He told them that everybody who believed what He preached would be able to do the same things. Don't you remember He said—'Teach them to observe'—and observe means to practice— 'all things whatsoever I have commanded you.' Those were His very words. Now don't you think that meant to heal in His way instead of using drugs and all sorts of queer things that the Bible doesn't say anything about?" and Dorothy bent an eager, inquiring look upon her uncle.

"Where do you find all that?" questioned Phillip Stanley, and thus evading a direct reply.

But what she had said had set him thinking of arguments along the same line which Mrs. Minturn had used, during some of their discussions on board the Ivernia.

Dorothy shot a roguish glance up at him.

"I guess you don't know your Bible very well, do you, Uncle Phillip?" she said, laughing. "But when you go home please read the last six verses of the last chapter of Mark, and then the last two verses of the last chapter of Matthew, and see for yourself if what Jesus said about healing the sick isn't just as strong as what He said about preaching to sinners."

"All right, I will; but, by Jove, Dorrie! what a profound little theologian you are getting to be!" laughingly returned the man as, with a caressing hand, he smoothed back the golden hair from her forehead. "What makes you bother your brain with such perplexing questions?"

"I suppose one reason is because I've been sick so long and nobody does me any real good. Oh! I shouldn't have said that to you, when you try so hard," Dorrie interposed, flushing. "But I like to talk about such things, and you are very good to talk with me. Papa used to; but, lately, he doesn't seem to like to. You ought to hear Miss Minturn, though."

"Miss Minturn!" repeated Phillip Stanley, with an inward start.

"Yes. I don't believe you know who she is. She is a new student, and she is just lovely," said Dorothy, with animation.

"Does she talk with you about these things?" inquired Dr. Stanley, and recalling what Katherine had told him regarding having been forbidden to advance her peculiar views while she was a student at Hilton.

"I never heard her say anything about what we have been talking of to-day," Dorothy replied. "I'm going to ask her, though, what she thinks, sometime. But papa asked her some questions once in the Sunday class, and her ideas about God and the way people ought to live are beautiful. She has been to see me several times, and she always brings me a lovely flower of some kind—a rose or lily, and once the sweetest orchid; only one at a time, but always such a beauty. I love to look at it when she is gone, and it almost seems as if she had left part of herself behind."

"That is just like her dainty ladyship," Phillip Stanley observed to himself, and Dorrie continued:

"Sometimes others have been here when she has come, and other times I've felt too weak to talk; but—it is very strange!—I never have that tired feeling in my back when she is here, and she is always so bright and cheery I forget the pain and feel so happy and—and rested. Oh! must you go. Uncle Phillip?" she concluded, regretfully, as he arose and took up his hat.

"Yes, dear, I've made you a long call, and now I really must get back to the office," he said, as he bent his lips to hers for his accustomed farewell.

The girl twined her arms around his neck.

"You are very good to me, Uncle Phillip, and I love you," she murmured, softly, "and when you go away I always count the hours 'til you come again."

"Well! well! I begin to think I am a person of considerable importance," he rejoined, in a playful tone.

"You 'begin to think,'" she retorted, roguishly; "haven't you ever thought it before? I'm not quite sure that you are as modest as you pretend to be. But, Uncle Phil—"

"Yes?"

"Will you look up those verses and tell me what you think, the next time you come?"

"I promise you I will, Dorrie; and now au revoir!"

He touched the bell to call the nurse, then waved her a last good- by and quietly left the room.

Phillip Stanley did not, indeed, "know his Bible very well," and had spent very little time conning its pages since starting out in life for himself. Like many another who has been rigidly reared under the vague doctrines of "old theology," he had, at an early age, become both restive and skeptical. This state of mind had grown more pronounced as he had advanced in his profession and been brought in such close touch with suffering and dying humanity. Thus he had long since ceased to attend church, and, having found no comfort in the Scriptures—which seemed to him to portray a stern dictator and relentless judge rather than a merciful and loving Father—he had resolved to live his life as nearly in accord with his own highest conception of honor and rectitude as possible, become an ornament to and an authority in his profession, do what good he could along, the way, and not puzzle his brain trying to solve the perplexing problems of this life and of an unknowable future.

But to-day, on his way back to the city, he found himself thinking more seriously of these things than for many years, and, upon reaching his office and finding no one awaiting him, his first act was to take from an upper shelf his long neglected Bible and read the passages which Dorothy had named to him.

They appealed to him as never before. Every word bristled with a new meaning, and, becoming deeply interested after reading the last two verses of Matthew, he began the book of Mark and did not leave it until he reached the end.

"H-m! I begin to see what Mrs. Minturn founded some of her arguments upon," he said, as the striking of the clock warned him of his dinner hour. "Well, I wonder, were those cases 'miracles'— just supernatural wonders, performed merely to prove Jesus' authority to preach a new gospel? or were they 'governed by a demonstrable Principle,' as she affirms, brought to earth for suffering humanity to learn and practice, and so be redeemed from its sin-cursed bondage?

"There certainly ought to have been a panacea provided for all disease," he resumed, after a moment of deep thought. "But there is none to-day—at least materia medica has never found one, and that is a mortifying fact to be obliged to admit after over four thousand years of investigation and experiment. Poor Dorrie! I'd really like to make a test of her case!"

He put down his book with a sigh and then went out to his evening meal, a troubled expression on his handsome face.