One evening Sadie was sitting by herself upon the veranda that overlooked the ocean, and where she was watching a glorious full moon which seemed to be rolling straight out of the glimmering sea into the cloudless vault above. It was unusual for her to be alone, but Mrs. Minturn had slipped away for a chat with Mrs. Seabrook, and Katherine, at the invitation of Dr. Stanley, had gone for a walk to the library in search of an interesting book for Dorothy.

Sadie had changed much during her summer with her friends. She had grown more thoughtful, more self-poised, more orderly and systematic in her ways; while, it goes without saying, she had become deeply attached to every member of the family.

Just now she was absorbed in a mental discussion with herself regarding what would be the most acceptable and appropriate gift she could offer each one, to attest her appreciation of their united kindness and unrivaled hospitality in taking her so lovingly into their household for the long vacation.

Without having heard a step or a movement, without a suspicion that any living being was near, her name was suddenly pronounced in familiar tones directly behind her.

"Sadie!"

She sprang to her feet and faced the intruder.

"Oh, Ned! Why have you come? Why cannot you let me alone?" she cried, in a startled tone.

"I have come to make you take back your ring," and he held out the box to her. "And I cannot 'leave you alone,' because—you know why, Sadie."

"No, I shall not take back the ring," she replied, waving it away, "and I wrote you that everything was at an end between us; that I would not be bound to you any longer."

"But you are bound—you have given me your promise."

"I have taken back that promise."

"Why?"

"Because—oh! for many reasons. I have my course to finish; I mean to put my best work into the coming year, and I will not be hampered in any such way," resolutely returned Sadie, who was fast recovering tier self-possession.

"No; it is because that preaching, sanctimonious Katherine Minturn has influenced you against me," hotly retorted her companion.

"Katherine Minturn is the dearest, loveliest, sweetest girl in the world, and I won't hear one word against her," said Sadie, in stout defense of her friend.

"Well, what are some of your other 'many reasons'?" demanded Mr. Willard, and quickly retreating from what he saw was dangerous ground.

"I—reckon I'm under no obligation to give them," slowly returned the girl, after a moment of thought. "It is sufficient that I have decided to end everything. Now please let that settle it and don't try to see me again."

"Don't you care for me any more, Sadie? What have I done? What fault have you to find with me?"

"Have you no fault to find with yourself, Ned Willard? Are you satisfied with the life you are living?" gravely inquired Sadie, but ignoring his queries.

"But you would be the making of me, Sadie. Under your influence I could be anything—everything you could wish."

"Well, now—doesn't that strike you as rather a weak argument for a man to offer for himself?" returned his companion, lapsing into her Southern drawl which, of late, had not been so prominent; "to ask a girl to bind herself irrevocably to him for life and holding out as an inducement the privilege of reforming him?" and there was a note of scorn in the lazy tones that stung the man to sudden anger.

"I swear I will not be trifled with in any such way," he passionately exclaimed. "You shall rue your words, Sadie Minot—"

"I reckon I'd better go in," she interrupted, and turned haughtily from him.

"You won't go in yet," he said, through tightly shut teeth, as he placed himself in her path. "I'll see if—"

At that instant voices were heard, and, turning, both saw Katherine, accompanied by Dr. Stanley, mounting the steps leading to the veranda.

With a half audible imprecation, the baffled intruder sprang upon the railing and vaulted over.

But his foot becoming entangled in the vines trailing there caused him to fall heavily to the ground, where, after one sharp cry of agony, he lay silent and motionless.

In less time than it takes to record it, Sadie was kneeling beside him, while her friends followed closely after.

"I will call the coachman. We must get him into the house immediately," said Katherine, who was intent only upon giving instant succor to the injured man.

"No," vetoed Dr. Stanley, authoritatively, "he must not be taken in here. You may call help, however, and I will have him carried to my room, where I will ascertain how seriously he is injured, then we can decide what further disposition to make of him."

The coachman and hostler were summoned, and the unconscious man was borne to the Hunt cottage and laid upon Phillip Stanley's bed. Here an examination revealed that the left leg had been broken above the knee; but, before an hour had passed, this was skillfully set and the patient made as comfortable as possible for the night.

Dr. Stanley would not permit his sister to be inconvenienced in any way by this addition to their family, but took it upon himself to minister to the sufferer's requirements, which he did with all the ease and skill of a trained nurse.

During the first day or two the young man preserved a sullen silence; but as his attendant manifested only good will and invariably treated him with the utmost courtesy and kindness, his reserve gradually wore away and he became more communicative.

"This has proved a pretty unlucky trip for me," he observed, on the third morning after the accident, and thus introducing a subject which Dr. Stanley had studiously avoided.

"Possibly; but you are coming on all right. You have had no fever, no pain," the physician replied.

"No, and I don't understand that part of it at all," remarked his patient, thoughtfully. "I have always supposed it was a terrible experience to have a broken bone set."

"Well, Willard, I have a confession to make to you about that," his companion returned; "you were in such a state of collapse Tuesday night I felt you were unfit to decide any question for yourself, and, as I had no anaesthetics at hand, I asked Mrs. Minturn to give you a Christian Science treatment while I performed my duties, and since then I have been trying to work, under her direction, to keep the claims of inflammation and fever from manifesting themselves."

"Christian Science!" repeated the patient, with a short laugh. "Well, I've heard that it would do great things, but I never took any stock in it; it seemed like so much twaddle to me. You are sure you're not guying me, doctor?"

"Indeed, I am not; you can rely on what I have told you."

"All right; the method doesn't signify, so long as I was spared the pain."

"Then, are you willing to keep on under the same treatment?" inquired his companion.

"I'll be blamed! I believe you're turning Scientist yourself!" exclaimed Willard, with a broad grin. "But it makes no difference to me what you do, so I get results. You're a first-class doctor, and would be sure to know if anything was going wrong. But— confound the luck!—I don't want to be laid up here for three months," he concluded, impatiently.

"There will be no need of that. I think by the end of another week you can be put upon a Pullman and go home," was the encouraging response.

"Home!" was the bitter retort. "You know I can't go there,
Stanley."

"Well, you are going to be well taken care of, anyway. I shall attend to that," said Dr. Stanley, kindly.

"Doc, you're O. K. You've been mighty good to me, first and last," the patient observed, and flushing with sudden feeling. "I suppose you know what brought me down here," he added, after a moment of silence.

"Yes, I know something about it. You followed Miss Minot here."

"Why shouldn't I follow her?" was the hot reply. "She had promised to marry me."

"I understand that promise had been revoked."

"She had no right to revoke it after leading me on—"

"Leading you on!" sternly interrupted Phillip Stanley. "Willard, don't add to your other sins by laying that at the girl's door, when I've known of your boasts that before the year was out you 'would have a wife and the handling of a cool three hundred thousand dollars.'"

"Who told you that?" demanded the young man, with a guilty flush and a shame-faced air.

"It does not matter who told me; I have it on good authority."

"But, Stanley, I am fond of her. I really am."

"Suppose Alfred Bent was fond of your sister, Minnie, in the same way, would you like to have him marry her?"

The fellow shrank as under a lash and his eyes blazed.

"By thunder—no!" he vehemently returned.

"But Alfred Bent has been your inseparable crony during the last two years that you have wasted, and there is very little to choose between you. So ask yourself if you are fit to marry a girl like Miss Minot; what right you have to ruin her life and squander her money."

"I say, doc, you are piling it on thick," Willard here interposed, in an injured tone.

"Yes, I know it sounds harsh, Ned," said the physician, bending a grave though kindly look on him, "but, in my profession, you know we sometimes have to probe and adopt severe measures before a cure can be effected. You also know, from past experience, that kindness was the only motive that prompted me in what I have done and still prompts me in what I am doing; so, now having come to an enforced pause in your career, I want you to improve it by doing some serious thinking. You are a fellow of more than ordinary natural ability, Ned, and have it in your power to gain an enviable position in the world if you would turn your talents in the right direction."

"You flatter me," was the sarcastic interruption.

"I have been telling you some very plain truths, and it is only fair to give credit also where it is due," said his companion, in a friendly tone. "I am sure that underneath your seeming recklessness you have not always felt comfortable or satisfied with yourself. You are the only son of a fine father, who has given you every advantage. Your mother is one of the 'salt of the earth'; but her hair has been growing very white during the last two years, and Minnie—well, my heart has often ached for her as I have noted the sad drooping of her eyes and the grieved quiver of her lips when she has spoken to me of you."

"Stanley, have you any brandy in the house?" suddenly demanded Willard, trying to speak in his ordinary tone; but his companion saw that he was white to his lips, and concluded that he had "probed" far enough for the present.

"You are not to have stimulants while you are under treatment," was the quiet but decisive reply.

"But, doc, I can't stand it. I really can't. Look!" and he held up a hand that shook like a leaf.

"You will be better of that shortly, my boy. I'll take care of it," was the kind reply. "But"—confidentially—"while we are talking of it, wouldn't you be glad to have that habit broken—to be free?"

The poor fellow drew in a quick, sharp breath; then, in a hard, metallic tone, he said:

"I've thought a score of times I would be free; that I'd end it once for all—take a last drink, you know, with a dose of strychnine in it." Then, tossing back the hair from his forehead, he added, with an effort to be facetious: "I wonder how your science would work on that? I say, Stanley, are you really turning Christian Scientist?"

Before his companion could reply, a maid appeared in the doorway, bearing a tray on which a tempting lunch was arranged. Dr. Stanley drew a table beside the bed and deftly placed things so that his patient could easily reach them; then, at his request, went below to join his sister and Dorothy at their repast.

The subjects of their recent conversation were not resumed, but, though the physician was in some doubt regarding the impression made on the young man's mind, it was evident that he cherished no resentment. He did not ask for liquor again, either, though there were times when a certain look in his eyes warned his watchful attendant that the old craving was making itself felt and caused him to flee to his "little book" and work vigorously on this first venture, which, with Mrs. Minturn's assistance, he was making in Christian Science.

One day, having made his charge comfortable and supplied him with an entertaining book to read, Dr. Stanley sought the companionship of his sister and Dorothy, on the broad piazza, where they now almost lived when the weather was fine.

"See! Uncle Phil," cried his niece, the moment he appeared, and holding up some work for his inspection, "mamma is teaching me to fagot and hemstitch, and I am going to make some pretty collars like hers," and the eager tone and sparkling eyes told how deeply interested the girl was in the novel employment.

The hitherto sunken cheeks were beginning to assume a graceful contour; the lips had taken on a decided tinge of scarlet, while an unaccustomed vigor in all her movements told of daily increasing strength, and the cheery ring in her voice was like music to loving hearts.

The man bent down to inspect the small piece of linen and the dainty stitches, his face all aglow with inward thanksgiving as he praised her work.

"We will have you turning dressmaker next and setting up an establishment for yourself," he observed, in a sportive tone.

"Well, why not?" she gayly retorted. "If I took a notion to learn dressmaking, I am sure I could do it. But"—more gravely—"I am going to study like everything this winter and make up for lost time. Mamma and I have been talking it over, and she thinks I can begin the regular course if I want to. I do, and I mean to go through and graduate like any other student."

"Indeed! We are making great plans, aren't we?"

"Yes, I know it sounds big for me; but Mrs. Minturn says 'there is nothing we cannot do if we do not limit God,' and Miss Katherine says—"

"Well, what does Miss Katherine say?" queried her uncle, in an eager tone, as Dorothy paused to count the threads she was taking on her needle.

She looked up quickly into his face, his tone having attracted her.

"I guess you think she is pretty nice, too," she observed, naively.

"What has put that idea into your small head?"

"Oh! the way you speak of her and look at her sometimes, and— well, of course"—with an appreciative sigh—"anybody couldn't help loving her."

"But you haven't told me what she said," persisted the man, but feeling the color mounting in his face as he caught the merry gleam in his sister's eyes.

"Oh! she said that 'God being the only intelligence, man reflects that intelligence, and there is nothing we cannot learn if we keep that in our thought as we study'; so you see, it is all right for me to plan to go through college if I want to," and the tone indicated that the matter was settled.

"'Thou hast hid these things from the wise and prudent and hast revealed them unto babes,'" quoted Phillip Stanley to himself, as he stooped to recover a spool that rolled from Mrs. Seabrook's lap.

At the same moment the sound of wheels fell upon their ears; the next, a carriage stopped before their door and a stalwart figure leaped to the ground.

"Papa!" "William!" fell simultaneously from the lips of the mother and daughter—one with a ring of triumph in her voice, the other with a note of intense yearning in her tones.

The man caught his wife to his breast.

"Sweetheart, it is joy to hold you here once more," he breathed, as their lips met; and she knew there was no cloud between them.

Then he turned and knelt beside his child, folding her in a long, silent embrace.

One swift glance into her bright, eager, happy face had told him a story that thrilled his soul and made him, for the moment, dumb.

"Papa, you can see, can't you?—and you are glad, aren't you? "Dorothy at length observed, as she lifted wet but joyful eyes to his bronzed face.

"Darling, I can see, and I am more than 'glad,'" he returned, in a husky tone, as he gently released her, then arose to greet his brother-in-law.

"Phillip, old boy, it is good to be home again," he said, as he clasped the outstretched hand, and the hearty grip told the younger man that there would be no controversy between them over a previously mooted question, while he was strangely touched, when he added, with a smile that was somewhat tremulous:

"The cane is here, Phil, and at your disposal."

"What is that about a cane, papa?" cried Dorothy, whose quick ears had caught what he had said.

"I asked your father to bring me a nice cane from abroad," her uncle explained.

"Well, papa," the girl pursued, "I hope it is a very handsome one, and that you will make him a present of it, for you can never know how good Uncle Phil' has been to us."

Both gentlemen laughed, and were glad of the opportunity to give vent in this way to their pent-up emotions.

"All right, Dorrie; and when you see it you shall be the judge whether it is fine enough," replied the professor, as he turned again to feast his eyes upon the wonderful change in her.

A little later the lunch bell sounded, and the happy quartet went within to break bread together, for the first time in two long months. But one of the number could only make a pretense at eating—his heart was too full to allow him to do much but covertly watch his child, who was vigorously plying knife and fork and manifesting the appreciative appetite of a normally hungry girl.

Of course, there was much to tell and talk over, and the afternoon slipped swiftly away, twilight coming upon them almost before "the half had been told."

The subject of Christian Science had been mutually avoided, and was not referred to until after dinner, when Mrs. Minturn came in for her usual visit to Dorothy.

Prof. Seabrook had never met her but once, and that was when she had visited Hilton to apply for Katherine's admission to the school. But he recognized her instantly, and greeted her with the utmost cordiality.

When her interview with Dorothy was over and she rejoined the group in the parlor, he invited her to be seated and placed a chair for her.

"But this is your first evening with your dear ones, and they should have the privilege of monopolizing you," she objected, with her charming smile.

"Nay, there are some things that must be said, you know, and they, I am sure, are longing to hear them," he returned, with visible emotion. "First, I have no words adequate to express my gratitude for what you have done for my child."

"Not what I have done," the lady interposed, with gentle emphasis.

"I understand—and I have been trying to thank God every moment since my return," he said, "but you claim to be His messenger, or instrument, and surely we cannot ignore that fact. I left Dorrie pale and wasted to a mere shadow, scarcely able to move or help herself in any way. I find to-day a bright, animated girl, rapidly taking on flesh and strength, sitting upright in her chair— sewing! How the wonder has been accomplished is beyond my comprehension. I had previously vetoed Christian Science treatment; to be frank, I contemptuously repudiated it. I can no longer hold it in derision, neither can I say that my attitude towards it, as a science, or a religion, has changed."

"That is yet to come," said Mrs. Minturn, smiling, as he paused.

"I have read your text-book," he resumed, "but with a critical frame of mind that has been termed 'ecclesiastical and intellectual pride'"—this with a quizzical glance at his brother, who nodded back a sharp assent—"and I could or would find nothing good in it. To me it seemed atheistic, fallacious, heretical. You perceive I am not sparing myself in these admissions," he interposed, "but I have been doing some serious thinking during my return voyage, and now I am going to read that book again; not to criticise, but to get at its true inwardness if I can."

"That is a spirit that will surely bring its own reward," Mrs. Minturn responded, her face luminous with admiration for the frank and conscientious acknowledgment which the man had made.

Mrs. Seabrook turned glad eyes upon her husband.

"And, William, we will have her keep on with the treatment, will we not?"

"Assuredly; one could never have the heart to stop the good work, even though one may not comprehend the method," he heartily responded, and the happy wife and mother heaved a sigh of supreme content.

They talked on for a while longer, then Mrs. Minturn gracefully took her leave and went home to tell Katherine that another prodigal was on his way to his Father's house.