Time seemed to fly after Mrs. Minturn's visit. Winter melted into spring, spring budded and blossomed into summer, and June, with its examinations, commencement exercises and formalities, was once more close upon the students at Hilton.

Mr. and Mrs. Minturn came on from New York to be present at Katherine's graduation, after which the family, Jennie included, were going directly to their summer home at Manchester.

Prof. Seabrook had again been fortunate enough to secure the Hunt cottage for the season, for the owners were going abroad for a year and were only too glad to rent it to such desirable tenants.

Sadie was going with her guardian and his family to Newport for the summer, but had promised Katherine a fortnight's visit during the latter half of July.

The two girls had grown closer and closer to each other, and they now found themselves very loath to separate, to dismantle their pretty room and pack their trunks, for their final flitting from Hilton, their well-beloved alma mater. Their prospective departure was also generally regretted by both teachers and pupils, who were to remain, for each had won a stronghold in all hearts.

There had been a great change in Sadie, but it had only served to make her more attractive, and she had kept her word to "do her best" work during her last year, for she now stood second in her class, and thus had won the respect of her principal as well as of her teachers, while her happy temperament and the almost prodigal expenditure of her ample income to give pleasure to others had made her many firm friends among the students.

Katherine, as we know, had broken every barrier down before her junior year expired, and during the present one not a cloud had gathered to mar her relations with her associates; while, having lived her religion, Christian Science had grown to be respected by the whole school, especially after it became known what had produced the wonderful change in Dorothy, who did not seem like the same girl, and was now able to get about quite nimbly with the aid of crutches.

The last all-important day arrived, and the retiring seniors "did themselves proud" in their "grand final parade" before the public, receiving their floral tributes and diplomas with pretty, consequential airs and smiles of supreme content, singing their last songs, but wiping away a furtive tear or two which the suggestive melodies evoked; then their reign at Hilton was over.

After the class was dismissed, as Katherine was gathering up her flowers to take them to her room, she glanced at the cards attached to the various offerings. One bore "With dear love from father and mother"; another was from "Sadie," and a third from "Dorothy."

She stood in thoughtful silence for a moment after reading these names, a look of perplexity on her young face, a little shadow dimming her pretty brown eyes.

"I wonder," she began; then, suddenly cutting herself short, she threw back her small head with an unaccustomed air, and with a bright red spot on either cheek, went straight to her room,

"Bless your heart, honey! Whatever has given you such a magnificent color?" Sadie exclaimed, as Katherine opened the door, to find her roommate trying to dispose of the wealth of flowers that had poured in upon her from all sources.

"Have I more than usual?" she inquired, putting one hand over a hot cheek, which began to take on an even deeper hue.

"Indeed you have, and it's mighty becoming to you. You are perfectly stunning, and I'd like a picture of you as you look now," and the girl's appreciative glance swept over the graceful figure in its trailing white dress, the brilliant flowers encircled with one fair arm and the beautiful face all aglow with its unaccustomed color. "Well," she went on, with a satisfied sigh, "it is all over, ami mia, and I'm sure we made a downright splendid show, to say nothing about the honor we heaped upon ourselves, with our essays, poems, class history, singing, etc. I was proud of it all. Now for the grand finale to-night, and that, I suppose, will end our school life. Heigh-ho! aren't you just a little bit sorry, Kathleen mavourneen?"

"Yes, of course; one cannot help feeling the breaking away; er—
Sadie, was Dr. Stanley in the audience this afternoon?"

Miss Minot shot a quick, comprehensive look from under her long lashes at her companion, who had turned a little from her and was now apparently gazing out of a window.

"O-h! I see!" she ejaculated, reflectively, after an instant of hesitation.

"What do you see?" demanded Katherine, in surprise, and facing her suddenly.

"Why! Why, this beautiful Katherine—Mermet is refractory; she—it won't stand up in the vase; it has a crooked stem, lops over dejectedly and needs doctoring," Sadie observed, demurely, as she held the flower up to view. "But"—with 'a sly smile—"I reckon a little skillful surgery will straighten it out. Yes, Dr. Stanley was there—up in the north corner, almost behind that great post. How strange you didn't see him!"

"I didn't try to find anybody; I didn't care to know where anybody sat, at least until after I had read my essay; and then, you know, it was almost over," explained Katherine, turning away again, but not before her friend had noticed that the color was now all gone from her face.

She nodded her head wisely once or twice.

"He didn't send any flowers," she mentally observed. "Those Jacks are mine; the mixed bouquet is from the Minturns, and I saw Dorrie give the usher those Daybreak pinks. Well, it is queer. I wonder what it means?"

"There!" she remarked, aloud, "I've done the best I can with my avalanche of sweetness; now give me yours, honey, and I will put them in this jardiniere. But what will you save out to wear with your reception gown to-night?" she asked, as she took the flowers from Katherine.

"I—don't know, Sadie; I believe I won't make any change—I'll go just as I am," was the dejected reply as the girl sank wearily into a chair.

"Go just as you are! not make any change! Well, now, Miss Minturn, that really 'jars' me; with that perfectly killing pink liberty gauze, made over pink silk, all ready to slip on, and which just makes me green with envy to look at," Sadie exclaimed, in a tone of mock consternation, although, as she told her later, she was "dying to shriek with laughter." "What is the matter, honey?" she added, softly, the next moment.

"Matter?" repeated Katherine, trying to look unconscious.

"Yes; are you tired?"

"Well—it has been a pretty busy day, you know," and a half- repressed sigh seemed to indicate weariness.

"Who is that, I wonder?" remarked Miss Minot, as some one knocked for admittance. "Come in."

The door opened and a maid put her head inside.

"A box for Miss Minturn," she said, briefly.

Katherine sprang forward to take it and a strange tremor seized her as she severed the twine, removed the wrapper and lifted the cover.

Then the rich color flooded cheek and brow as she saw a small but exquisite spray bouquet of white moss rosebuds lying upon a bed of moist cotton, and, beside them, a card bearing the name, "Phillip Harris Stanley."

"Sadie! Did you ever see anything so lovely?" she cried, holding it out for her friend to admire, and trying not to look too happy.

"'Lovely' doesn't half express it," returned the girl, glancing from the waxen buds to the radiant face bending above them. "Ahem! Who sent 'em?"

"Dr. Stanley."

"U-m! just the thing to wear with that pink gauze to-night," was the laconic suggestion.

"They would look pretty with it, wouldn't they?" said Katherine, innocently.

"I reckon that was what they were meant for, or they would have come before and been handed in downstairs," Miss Minot observed, with an audible chuckle.

"Nonsense, Sadie!"

"What'll you wager on it?"

"How can one make a wager on what can't be verified?"

"Oh"—with an irrepressible giggle—"I'll take care of that part of it, if you'll only bet."

"What a perfect torment you can be, Sadie Minot, when you take a notion," interposed Katherine, flushing, but with a laugh that rang out clearly and sweetly. "But I must go and find mamma. She will be wondering what has become of me," and she turned abruptly away to get out of range of a pair of saucy, twinkling eyes.

She carefully sprinkled her buds, then covered them to keep them fresh, after which she went out to seek her parents, humming a bar of their farewell song on the way. As the sound of her footsteps died away in the distance Sadie sank upon a chair and gave vent to a ringing peal of mirthful laughter.

"Moss rosebuds!" she panted. "They will look 'pretty' with her dress! Oh, innocence! thy name is Katherine."

A few hours later the main building of the seminary was ablaze with light and resounding with music, happy voices and laughter, together with the tripping of many feet in the merry dance.

Bright and attractive maidens, in lovely evening dresses of many hues, flitting hither and thither with their attendants in more conventional attire; parents and guardians, gathered in social groups, or from advantageous positions, watching with smiling content the brilliant scene; lavish and beautiful floral decorations lending a perfumed atmosphere and artistic effect to the whole, all made a charming and spirited picture which Prof. Seabrook dearly loved to gaze upon, and to which he always looked eagerly forward at the close of every school year; albeit his enjoyment was somewhat tempered with sadness in view of the final farewells that must be said to his senior class on the morrow.

To-night, as he mingled with his guests, everywhere showing himself the thoughtful host and courteous gentleman, his glance fell, several times, upon a graceful, rose-draped figure wearing a spray of white moss rosebuds on her corsage.

He also observed, as she moved in rhythmic sway to the inspiring music, that she was supported by the strong arm of his distingue- looking brother-in-law, who seemed, he thought, to be paying more homage than usual to the Terpsichorean Muse, and one particular lady.

"Well, what do you think of it, Will?" whispered his wife, who happened to be near him once as the couple went circling by.

"What do I think of what, Emelie?" he queried, evasively.

"Why, of the way Phil is carrying on to-night! Did you ever see anybody so lost to all things mundane—save the presence of a certain very dainty little lady—as he is at this moment?"

"He does seem unusually frisky, I admit—especially with his feet," said the professor, with a smile.

"His feet! Will, just look at him! He doesn't know he has any feet; he is all eyes and—heart! You know what I mean, dear," his companion pursued. "I've seen you watching them with that quizzical look in your eyes. What would you think of it as a—a match?"

"Emelie! a matchmaker!—thou!" ejaculated her husband, in a tone of mock dismay, though his lips twitched with amusement.

She laughed out musically, a sound that he loved and heard frequently nowadays.

"But what would you think?" she persisted.

"I would think, sweetheart, that—with one exception I could name- -he had won a crown jewel and the sweetest wife in the world," replied the professor as he looked fondly down into the blue eyes uplifted to his.

Once Sadie, leaning on the arm of a dashing cadet in uniform, swept slowly by Katherine and her companion.

"How about that wager, honey?" she languidly inquired, her roguish eyes fastened upon the conspicuous rosebuds.

But Katherine's only reply was a defiant toss of her brown head as she smiled serenely back at her and whirled blissfully on.

Of course, it all had to come to an end, and morning found the weary, though still happy, revelers preparing, with much bustle and confusion, to disperse to their various homes; but that last delightful evening, with its music, and flowers, and charming associations, remained a brilliant spot in memory's realm during many after years.

A week later found the Minturns and Seabrooks again located for the season at Manchester-by-the-sea.

Prof. Seabrook, to the great joy of his family, was to remain with them throughout the vacation. He would do no roaming this year, he said. He had something of far more importance to attend to, and unfolded a plan to his dear ones, which was received with the greatest enthusiasm; more of which anon.

It proved to be a summer long to be remembered by all, especially by Jennie, for various reasons; one of which was, she had never before seen the ocean, and it was a wonderful revelation to her, filling her with ever-increasing admiration and awe.

"One gets something of an idea of what eternity means," she said, with a long-drawn breath of rapture, when, one day, Katherine accompanied her to a high point which commanded a limitless expanse of sea that seemed to softly melt away into the sky and so become lost to human vision.

She could not content herself indoors much of the time, and almost won for. herself again the sobriquet of "Wild Jennie," for she would often disappear directly after breakfast, going off on long tramps to return hours later, laden with a promiscuous assortment of shells, stones, star-fish and other curiosities with which she lavishly adorned her own room and various other portions of the house.

"Oh, it's only a 'spell,'" she retorted one day, when Katherine laughingly commented upon her conchological, geological, ichthyological "research." "It has got to have its 'run,' like some other beliefs that aren't so good; then I'll get over it, I suppose, settle down and behave like people who are already seasoned. If I could only be as successful in a genealogical way there'd be nothing left to wish for," she concluded with a wistful sigh.

"Are you still brooding over that, Jennie?" gravely inquired
Katherine.

"Not exactly 'brooding,' dearie. I guess it's just a kind of hankering, though mortal mind does set up a howl, now and then, in spite of me, and says 'don't you wish you knew.'"

Katherine laughed softly at the characteristic phraseology, but bent a very tender look upon the girl.

"Well, you do know that you are God's child," she said, gently.

"Yes; and I know it now, in a way that I never did before I knew you; and I'm sure no other 'stray waif' ever had quite so much to be thankful for as I have."

They all loved the girl, and she was the life of the house, although she had toned down considerably during the last year; for she was always bright and cheery, keeping everybody in a ripple with her quaint sayings and contagious mirth.

At the same time she made herself helpful, in many ways, was ever thoughtful for others, and, withal, so affectionate that everyone was the happier for her presence in the house.

So the time drew on apace for the convening of Mrs. Minturn's "class," the date of which had been set for the twentieth of July.

It was to be a full class, this year, and a convenient room had been secured in the "Back Bay district," in Boston, many of her prospective students being desirous of spending their vacation in that city to enjoy the privileges and services of "The Mother Church."

Prof. Seabrook took rooms for himself and family near by—this was his "plan," that they all three have class instruction together— for such an arrangement would be more convenient for them than to try to go back and forth, each day, and also give them more time for study.

It was an earnest and intelligent company that gathered in the appointed place on Monday, July twentieth, all eager to be fed with the Bread of Life. There were two clergymen, one physician, two lawyers, several teachers, business men and women, and others from humbler walks of life. Miss Reynolds had come on to "review"; Jennie and Sadie were also among the number.

Intense interest and the closest attention were manifested throughout the course, and Mrs. Minturn afterwards remarked that the class, as a whole, was one of the brightest and most receptive that she had ever taught.

The sixth lesson was a particularly impressive one, during which every occupant of that sacred room became so conscious of the power and presence of Truth and Love, that the place almost seemed to them a "mount of transfiguration," as it were, where the Christ was revealed to them as never before.

When the class was dismissed for the day, Mrs. Minturn asked Prof. Seabrook if he would kindly remain to assist her with some papers she had to make out; and Mrs. Seabrook and Dorothy, their "hearts still burning within them," stole quietly away to their rooms to talk over by themselves the beautiful things they had learned that morning.

They passed out upon the street and had walked nearly half the distance to their boarding place, when Mrs. Seabrook stopped short and turned a startled face to her child.

"Dorothy, your crutches!" was all she could say.

The girl lifted a wondering look to her.

"Mamma!" she said, in a voice of awe, "I forgot all about them!"

"Shall we—shall I go back for them?" mechanically inquired her mother.

"Go back for my crutches? Mamma! why, mamma! don't you see that I am free?—that I can walk as well as you?" she exclaimed, with a catch in her breath that was very like a sob. "You've just got to know it, for me and with me," she continued authoritatively, as she started on, "for I will never use them again. I have 'clung to the truth'—we've all clung—and 'Truth has made me free'! Oh!"— in an indescribable tone—"'who is so great a God as our God?' Let us g-get home quick, or—I shall have to c-cry right here in—the street."

"Mamma, I think I know, now, just when all the fear left me," Dorothy said later, when, after reaching their rooms, each had for a few moments sought the "secret place" to offer her hymn of praise for this new gift of Love. "You know how beautifully Mrs. Minturn talked about man's 'God-given dominion,' this morning; did you ever hear anyone say such lovely things? She seemed to take you almost into heaven, and I felt so happy—so light and free, I wanted to fly. I forgot all about my body, and I walked out of that room without realizing what I was doing; I hadn't really got back to mortal sense and things material, when you stopped and spoke of my crutches. I haven't said anything about it, for it seemed too good to be true, but for nearly two weeks I've had such a longing to walk alone, and, at times, it has almost seemed as if I could, but didn't quite dare to try. And, mamma"—Dorothy lowered her voice reverently—"have you noticed, when helping me to dress lately, that—that one of the curves is nearly gone from my back?"

"Yes, dear, but I 'have not dared' to call your attention to it— that is what has made you seem so much taller, though we have called it 'growing,'" her mother returned.

"Don't you think we have been very, very faithless, mamma, dear, not to 'dare' speak of our blessings and thank God for them?" said the girl, tremulously.

"Dorrie, you shame me, every day, by your implicit faith!" faltered the woman, tears raining over her face.

"No—no; not 'implicit,' mamma, for that would make the other curve straight this very minute. But I know it is going to he, sometime, for God made the real me upright and nothing can deprive me of my birthright."

Half an hour later Prof. Seabrook came in, looking a trifle pale and anxious.

Dorothy arose and went forward, with radiant face, to meet him. He could not speak, but opened his arms to her and held her close for a minute, his trembling lips pressed against the fair head lying on his breast.

Presently she gently released herself, remarking:

"Papa, do you know, when you came in, you looked as if you expected to find what we have all wished for so long."

"I did and—I didn't," he replied, with a faint smile. "When I had finished what Mrs. Minturn asked me to do, and started to leave the room, I saw your crutches standing in the corner where I had put them after you were seated.

"While I stood blankly staring and wondering, that blessed woman came to me with such a light on her face—it fairly shone with joy and love.

"'Dorrie has gone,'" she said. "'I saw her walk out with her mother.'

"Involuntarily I put out my hand to take the crutches,

"'No—leave them,' she said, 'she will never need them again, and you do not wish any reminders of error about you.' So I came away praying 'Lord, I believe, help thou my unbelief.'"