Phillip Stanley sped across the street to do his errand and inquired for Katherine.

She heard his voice and went directly to him when he told her what her mother had just said about Dorrie, and the light that leaped into her great brown eyes inspired him with fresh hope.

"Ah! mamma is holding her in the 'secret place,' and we know she is safe," she said, in a reverent tone.

She quickly brought the wrapper; then, with a brief handclasp, he bade her "good-night" and retraced his steps.

Before going upstairs he sought the kitchen, where the cook was lingering, thinking something might be needed, and ordered a dainty lunch prepared; then, taking both tray and garment, he left them at Dorrie's door and passed on to the next room to find his sister just waking.

"Phillip!" she cried, starting up, "I have been asleep!"

"Yes, Emelie, for more than three hours, I am glad to say."

"Oh, how inconsiderate of me! And—Dorrie?" she questioned, in a quavering voice.

"Is more comfortable. She has been awake twice, and had two glasses of milk," replied her brother, as he laid a gentle, but restraining hand upon her shoulder, for she was on the point of rising.

She regarded him wonderingly.

"Phillip! I can't believe it! I must go to her," she said, almost breathless.

"No; Mrs. Minturn is going to remain all night. She says she is not to be disturbed, and we must respect her wishes," said Dr. Stanley, authoritatively. "She will call you if you are needed, but says she wants us both to rest, if possible. Now lie down again, dear, and I will sit in the Morris chair in the hall, to be near if you wish to speak to me."

Mrs. Seabrook sat irresolute a moment, her eyes anxious and yearning.

"Emelie, you have voluntarily given Dorrie into God's hands; now prove that you trust Him," her companion gravely admonished.

She looked up at him and smiled.

"Yes, I will; and I believe that 'His hand is not shortened that it cannot save, nor His ear heavy that it cannot hear,'" she replied, and immediately lay back upon her pillow.

Her brother covered her with a shawl, then left her with a thankful heart, for he knew she was sadly in need of rest.

Going to his room, he secured his copy of "Science and Health," and, retracing his steps, settled himself to read by the table in the hall, which was often used as a sitting room.

As he sat down he observed that Mrs. Minturn's wrapper and the tray had disappeared; then he became absorbed in his book.

The next he knew a hand was laid softly on his shoulder, and, starting erect, he saw that a new day was just breaking and Mrs. Minturn standing beside him, looking as fresh and serene as if she had just come from hours of sweet repose instead of from a long night's vigil.

"Dorrie is hungry," she said, "and I think it would be well if you would arouse one of the maids and have something nice prepared for her."

"I will; what shall it be?" said the man, springing nimbly to his feet, but scarcely able to credit his ears.

"A dropped egg and a slice of toast, with a glass of milk, will perhaps be forthcoming as quickly as any-thing—"

"Wait, Phil—don't call anyone. I will get it," interposed Mrs. Seabrook's voice, just behind them. "Dorrie hungry!" she added, wonderingly. She had heard Mrs. Minturn's request, and hurried out to convince herself that she was not dreaming.

"Yes, so she says," said Mrs. Minturn, smiling serenely into the questioning eyes, "and when her breakfast is ready I think she will prove the truth of her words to you."

Away sped the mother, marveling at what she had heard, but with a hymn of praise thrilling her heart; and, ten minutes later, as she moved lightly over the stairs again, she heard a sweet, though weak, voice saying:

"Listen, Mrs. Minturn!—just hear the birds sing!"

Phillip Stanley heard it also, as he sat in the hall, his head bowed upon his hands, while great tears rolled over his cheeks and dropped unheeded on the floor; and, as the feathered choristers without sweetly chirped their tuneful matins, his grateful heart responded with reverent joy—"Glory to God in the highest."

As Mrs. Seabrook entered Dorrie's room and saw the change in the loved face—still very thin and white, it is true, but with a look of peace on the brow, the eyes bright, the pale lips wreathed with smiles—her composure well-nigh forsook her.

"Mamma, hear the birds!—and it isn't sunrise yet!" she said again, as her mother approached her.

"Yes, dear; but I hear what is far sweeter music to me," the woman replied, making a huge effort at self-control. "So you are hungry, Dorrie!" she added, bending to kiss the lips uplifted to greet her.

"Yes, really and truly hungry, and so happy; for my cold and the pain are all gone. How kind of Mrs. Minturn to stay with me! Did you sleep, mamma?"

"Like a kitten, dear. I think we have a great deal to thank Mrs. Minturn for," said Mrs. Seabrook, bending a grateful look upon her friend.

"That tastes good," Dorrie observed, as she partook, with evident relish, of the delicately prepared egg, "and how nicely you do toast bread! It looks almost like gold."

She was silent a moment, then resumed:

"Mamma, I wish you could have heard how beautifully Mrs. Minturn talked to me, last night, every time I awoke; and repeated such lovely things from the Bible. Of course, I have heard them before, but, somehow, they sound different as she says them."

"And you begin to see that God never made or intended anyone to be sick or suffer; that it is your right to be well and strong. You will try to think of that often to-day, will you not, Dorothy?" said Mrs. Minturn, as she lifted the small hand near her, to find no fever but a gentle moisture in the palm, instead.

"Yes, and I've a better idea now of what Miss Katherine once said about God—that He is Mind and perfect, and if we would let this perfect Mind rule us we would be well. What was that you read me from your little book about it feeding the body?" the girl earnestly inquired.

"'Mind constantly feeds the body with supernal freshness and fairness,'" [Footnote: "Science and Health," page 248.] quoted Mrs. Minturn.

"Yes, that was it; if that is true, people should never be sick," said Dorothy, with a little sigh. "No, and they would not be if they only knew how to let the divine Mind control them. You are going to learn how, Dorothy, and so find yourself growing strong and well with every day," said Mrs. Minturn, with a cheery smile.

"I wish I knew more about it," Dorothy wistfully observed. "Mamma, why cannot we have a book like Mrs. Minturn's?"

"We will have, dear," was the prompt response. "Have you had enough?"—as the girl gently put away the half-eaten slice of toast.

"Yes, when I have had the milk." She drank it all and then lay back, smiling contentedly. "It is so nice not to have any pain," she added; "it makes me love everybody. Ha! Uncle Phil"—for the man was peering in at the door, unable to keep away a moment longer—"come here and I will kiss you 'good-morning.'"

Mrs. Seabrook could bear no more and stole away with her tray to hide the tears she could no longer restrain.

Mrs. Minturn followed her.

"I am going now," she said, "but I shall continue to work for Dorrie all day, at intervals, and will run over now and then. All is going well, so 'be not afraid, only believe.'"

"How can I ever express what is in my heart?" faltered Mrs.
Seabrook, tears raining over her face.

"You do not need to try, for I know it all, having once been almost where Dorrie seemed to be last night," her friend returned. "But do not make a marvel of it—just know that God's ways are 'divinely natural,' and that it is unnatural for anything but health and harmony to exist in His universe. I have left my book, and you can read to her if she expresses a wish to have you do so."

There were very grateful, reverent hearts in the Hunt cottage that day and during the days that followed, for Dorothy continued to improve rapidly and steadily, and there was no return of the old pain that had made life so wretched for her for years.

The fourth day after her long night-watch Mrs. Minturn sent a roomy carriage—the back seat piled with down coverlids—"to take them all for a drive."

Dr. Stanley, still governed largely by the "old thought," would have vetoed such a suggestion under different circumstances, and claimed that the child was still too weak to attempt anything of the kind. But he felt that he, himself, was now under orders, and meekly refrained from even expressing an opinion.

So they thankfully accepted their neighbor's kindness, and when he saw Dorrie's delight in being once more out of doors, when he met her dancing eyes and noted the faint color coming into her cheeks and lips, and every day realized that she was getting stronger, something within seemed to tell him that she would yet be well; and—figuratively speaking—he reverently took off his materia medica hat to Mrs. Minturn and secretly registered the vow of Ruth to Naomi—"Thy people shall be my people and thy God my God."

One evening, after Dorothy was in bed and asleep, he came upon his sister in the upper hall reading "Science and Health," and he smiled, for since the night of their great trial she had literally devoured the book every spare moment she could get.

"Have you written Will anything about our recent experiences?" he inquired, as she glanced up at him.

"No; and I am not going to—just yet. Of course, I have written him," she hastened to add, "but I have said nothing about Dorrie, except that she is improving. I think"—thoughtfully—"I will make 'open confession' by another week, for I had a talk with Mrs. Minturn, this afternoon, and she feels that it is hardly fair, that she is not quite justified to go on with the treatment without his consent."

"Suppose he should still object?" suggested Dr. Stanley.

"Oh, he will not—he cannot when he learns the truth and of the great change in her; that the old pain is gone and she sleeps the whole night through," earnestly returned Mrs. Seabrook, but flushing hotly, for she had been secretly dreading to tell her husband of the responsibility she had assumed.

"Well, when you are ready to write let me know, for I also shall have something to say to him," said her brother, gravely.

A week later two voluminous letters, charged with matter of serious import, went sailing over the ocean on their way to Paris, where it was expected they would find Prof. Seabrook, who, having turned his face home-ward, would spend the last week of August there.

Each was characteristic of the writer; the mother's touchingly pathetic in describing the "valley of the shadow" through which they had passed, and glowing with love and gratitude to God in view of the present hopeful and peaceful conditions; closing with an earnest, even piteous, appeal for her husband's unqualified consent to continue Christian Science treatment.

The young physician was no less earnest in laying the case before his brother-in-law, but rather more logical and philosophical in discussing it, as well as very positive in his deductions. In conclusion he wrote:

"Perhaps you may be surprised to learn that I have been reading up on this subject during the last few months; but, as I have also been practicing medicine, at the same time, the mental conflict has been something indescribable. I told myself, in my presumption and egotism, that if there was healing power in Christian Science I would look into it and utilize it in connection with my own methods. The result has been a state of perpetual fizz—I know no better word to describe it; and now, after our recent experience, I find myself willing to sit humbly at the feet of higher authority and learn of a better and more efficacious healing art than I know of at present. For, I tell you in plain terms, Dorothy was dying—she was past all human aid when that blessed woman came, like an angel of peace, to us and in one night brought back our darling from the border of the unseen world. She, with her understanding of Christian Science, saved her. There can be no doubt on that point, and the child is better than I have ever seen her since her accident. There has been no return of pain, and you can imagine what that means to us all. She sleeps well, and has a healthy, normal appetite. But Mrs. Minturn is very conscientious— says she cannot work in a divided household, and must have your approval, if she is to go on with the good work. Now, Will, be a man; put your prejudices away on some upper shelf—or, better still, cast them to the winds; pocket your ecclesiastical and intellectual pride, and give Dorrie a chance. I am convinced 'there is more in this philosophy than we have ever dreamed of,' and I am going to know more about it. Cable just two words—'go on'—if you are willing, and, at the rate she is going on now, I'll wager a hat against a cane that you won't know your own daughter when you arrive. Bring the cane, please! In the same spirit of good fellowship as ever. "Affectionately yours, "PHIL."

There was a season of anxious, yet blessed, waiting after these letters were dispatched. Blessed for Dorothy, who was gaining every hour, and happy as the day was long; anxious for Mrs. Seabrook, who could not quite divest herself of the fear of her husband's disapproval, even though Mrs. Minturn was constantly admonishing, "Let not your heart be troubled," and working to demonstrate that there could be no opposition to Truth and that the work, so well begun, could not be hindered by bigotry, pride or self-will.

At last, one morning there came a cable message—just two words, as Phillip Stanley had requested, but not what he had asked for.

"'Sail to-day,'" Mrs. Seabrook read aloud from the yellow slip, and lost color as she looked anxiously into her brother's eyes and questioned:

"What shall we do?"

"We will ask Mrs. Minturn," he gravely replied.

So the message was taken to her, and after a thoughtful silence she turned with her serene smile to the waiting mother.

"We will go on," she said. "The question is ignored, and silence gives consent until we have more definite instructions."

And go on they did, all working together, praying, reading, trusting, while they waited for the white-winged vessel and the traveler that were speeding towards them.

Three days later, a black bordered envelope was handed Katherine.

"It has no more power than you give it, dearie," observed her mother, who saw that she did not at once open it.

The girl thanked her with a smile, and instantly broke the seal.

"It is from Jennie Wild, mamma," she said, as she turned to the signature on the last page. Then she read aloud:

"DEAR MISS MINTURN: Auntie is gone, and it was all so sudden and awful I cannot realize it even yet. She just went to sleep last Thursday, in her chair, and never woke up. She was so dear—so dear, and I loved her with all my heart, and it seems to take everything out of the world for me, for her going leaves me alone, with no one to love, or have a kindred feeling for me. I had planned to do such great things for her when I should leave school, so that she need not work every minute to support me, and now I can do nothing and have been a burden to her all these years. It is dreadful to be a 'stray waif,' your identity lost, and your only friend swept out of the world without a moment's warning.

"Well, I am young and strong—I can work, and sometime, perhaps, I shall understand why I am here—what special niche I am to fill; though at present nothing but a blank wall seems to loom up before me. Of course, this means I am not going back to Hilton, for auntie's annuity ceased when she went; the quarterly remittance came the day before, so there was enough, and a little more, to take care of her. I am going, tomorrow, to Jerome's, to see if I can get a place in the store. I want to stay here because, now and then, I can see you, the Seabrooks, and some of the other girls who have been good to me. Please write to me, dear Miss Minturn. I thought of you first in my trouble, for you always have something so comforting to say when one is unhappy. Do you know anything about Prof, and Mrs. Seabrook, or how Dorothy is? "Lovingly yours, "JENNIE WILD."

There was a long silence, after Katherine finished reading this epistle, during which both mother and daughter were absorbed in thought. They were alone, for Miss Reynolds had left a few days previous and Sadie had gone to Boston to do some shopping.

"Mamma," said Katherine, at length, breaking the silence, "there is Grandma Minturn's legacy."

Mrs. Minturn lifted a bewildered look to her.

"Ah!" she said, the next moment, as she caught her meaning, "I understand; you want to use it for Jennie."

"Yes; it is too bad for her education to be stopped. She is a conscientious student, in spite of her pranks, and I cannot endure the thought of her going into a dry-goods store as a clerk," Katherine replied.

"But the will states that the legacy is to be used for 'a European tour, or a wedding trousseau, or—'"

"I know; but, mamma, I've had my European tour with you—such a lovely one, too!" Katherine interposed; "while as for the trousseau"—this with a faint smile—"that is a possible need so far away in the dim distance as to be absolutely invisible at present. So if you will let me use the money for Jennie I shall be happy, and I am sure it will be 'bread' well 'cast upon the waters.'"

"Dear heart!" replied her mother, in a voice that was not quite steady, "it is a lovely thought; but we cannot decide so important a matter without consulting your father. If he approves you have my hearty sanction."'

John Minturn, big-hearted, whole-souled, and always ready to lend a helping hand to a needy brother or sister, was deeply touched by Katherine's generosity.

"Well, 'my girlie,' I guess you can do about as you have a mind to with grandma's legacy," he said, when she unfolded her plan to him. "To be sure she stated what it might be used for, but I think she meant you to get what you most wanted with it. You've had the trip abroad, as you say, and"—with a twinkle in his eyes that brought the color to her cheeks—"when the wedding finery is needed—which I hope won't be for a long time yet—I imagine it will promptly be forthcoming."

"Thank you, papa. I wonder if any other girl manages to get her own way as often as I do!" said the happy maiden, as she gave his ear a playful tweak and supplemented it with a kiss on his lips.

"Well, Miss Philanthropy, for once I'll concede that it is an irresistible 'way,'" he retorted, then added more seriously: "And I think we will insist that Miss Wild shall return to Hilton as a regular student and have no outside duties to handicap her in the race, for the next three years."

"That was my own thought, too, papa; but"—with a look of perplexity—"there are nearly three weeks before school opens, and I am wondering what she will do with herself during that time."

"Oh, that is easily managed; tell her to board with some nice family, and be getting her finery in order. Judging from what is going on upstairs, she'll need a few stitches taken as well as some other people whom I know," returned the man, with a chuckle; for, unlike the majority of his kind, he took a deep interest in the apparel of his wife and daughter, especially in the "pretty nothings" which add so much to the tout ensemble.

But upon confiding her plans to Mrs. Seabrook, that lady at once vetoed the boarding proposition.

"Tell Jennie to go directly to the seminary and remain with the matron and maids, who will be there next Monday to begin to put the house in order," she had said. "And—as she knows where everything belongs—if she will oversee our rooms put to rights I shall feel that I need not hurry back."

So, with a happy heart, Katherine wrote immediately to her protegee a loving, tender letter, which also contained sympathetic messages from all her other friends. Then, with great tact, she unfolded her own plans and wishes regarding her future, and in conclusion said:

"Jennie, dear, never again say that you are a 'stray waif,' for nothing ever goes astray in God's universe. Your 'identity' is not 'lost,' for you are God's child, and that child can never be deprived of her birthright, nor of any good thing necessary to her happiness or well-being. Neither have you 'been deprived of your only friend,' nor has she been swept beyond the focus of your love, or you of hers. The bond that existed between you can never be broken, for it was, and still is, the reflection of divine Love that is omnipresent. I am looking forward to our reunion, and shall think of you often as the days slip by.

"With dear love, KATHERINE MINTURN."

The response which Katherine received to the above letter drew tears from her eyes, for Jennie's full heart overflowed most touchingly, showing a depth of grateful appreciation that did her much credit.

While still grieving for her "dear auntie," she could not restrain her joy, in view of the great boon of going back to school, and wrote of it:

"I did not think anything could make me so happy again, and I can never tell you how I love you for it. I will improve every minute. I will make you all proud of me. No one shall ever have cause to call me 'Wild Jennie' again, and when I graduate and get to teaching I shall pay you back every penny it has cost to fit me for it."

One evening, after dinner, the Minturns went, with some friends who were visiting them, to Katherine's favorite outlook, and, as they were passing the Hunt cottage they saw Dr. Stanley on the porch and invited him to join them. The sun was just setting as they reached their point of observation, where the view, illuminated by the vivid crimson and gold in the western sky, was impressive and magnificent beyond description.

They lingered long, as if loath to leave the enchanting prospect; but, as the softer shades of twilight began to steal gently like a veil of gauze over the scene, they turned their faces homeward once more.

As she was on the point of following, Katherine found Dr. Stanley tarrying beside her.

"Will you wait a moment?" he inquired, in a low voice, which impressed her as sounding not quite natural.

She paused with an inquiring look, and he led her back towards the edge of the bluff.

"Miss Minturn, do you see a vessel far out at sea?" he asked.

"Yes, it is a—"

"Pardon me, please," he interposed; "it is a five-masted schooner, with sails all set, is it not?"

"Why, yes," she began, turning to him in surprise, to find him looking off at the vessel, his right eye covered with one hand.

For a moment she could not speak. Then her face grew luminous with a great joy as she realized what it meant.

"Oh!" she breathed, softly.

"Yes, I can see," he said. "The sight has been slowly coming during the last month, and I have dimly discerned things around me. Yesterday Mrs. Minturn made a startling statement regarding sight being 'spiritual perception'—that 'it is not dependent upon the physical eye, the optic nerves, etc., but upon Mind, the all- seeing God,' and I caught a glimpse of something I had not comprehended before. To-day I found I could read my 'Science and Health' clearly, with both eyes; but I have not spoken of it to anyone until now—'twas you who first assured me that such a boon could be conferred. Miss Minturn"—he removed his hat and bowed his head reverently—"all honor to the 'Science of sciences' and to her, the inspired messenger through whom it has been given to a needy world."