There were only three more sessions, but they were wonderful "sittings together," for every member had been deeply impressed by the signal manifestation of God's power in their midst, in connection with Dorothy; and felt that the place whereon they stood was indeed "holy ground."

Then the class was dismissed with solemn, but loving, injunctions to go forth to "cheer the faint, uplift the fallen, and heal the sick."

But, before letting them go, Mrs. Minturn cordially invited the students to spend the following Thursday at her home in Manchester; to enjoy a reunion and an outing before finally separating to go to their different fields of labor.

As their last meeting occurred on Tuesday, there intervened but one day in which to prepare for the prospective festivities on Thursday. But willing hearts and hands—for Mr. Minturn was now at home, and Prof. Seabrook and Dr. Stanley proffered their services- -made light work of the various things to be done.

Katherine, Sadie and Jennie planned elaborate decorations for the veranda; accordingly the coachman and hostler were dispatched to the woods for pine boughs, evergreens, etc., then to a florist's, for potted ferns and plants, with an order for cut-flowers to be sent on Thursday morning, and it was not long before the house began to put on quite a festive appearance.

On Wednesday, just after lunch, Mr. Minturn repaired to the attic and brought forth a box supposed to contain Chinese and Japanese lanterns, with other decorations; but, alas! when it was opened it was found that the mice had made sad havoc with its contents, and they were condemned as utterly useless.

"That means a trip to Boston," the gentlemen observed to his wife, as he pushed the box into a corner with other rubbish, "for it would not be safe to trust to an order, at this late hour, and yet I do not see how I can go and leave things here."

"I suppose one of the maids might go," said Mrs. Minturn, rather doubtfully, "but, really, they are having such a busy day, with sweeping and cleaning, and there is so much still to be done, I hardly have the heart to ask them."

Jennie, who, with Mrs. Seabrook, Dorrie, Katherine and Sadie, was twining evergreen ropes and wreaths, and, at the same time, having a lovely, social visit, overheard the above conversation, and, knowing that Mr. Minturn could ill be spared, said to herself, with a sharp pang of regret:

"I'm the one who ought to go; but—I don't want to."

She glanced wistfully at the happy faces about her; at the half- finished wreath in her hands; at the deep-blue ocean whence came a cool, refreshing breeze, then, with a quickly repressed sigh, laid down her work and arose.

"Let me go," she said, turning to Mrs. Minturn and stealing a fond arm around her waist. "I'm sure I can do the errand all right."

"Dear, they will make quite a package, for there will have to be a good many," objected her friend, but with a quick smile of appreciation for her thoughtfulness. "Besides," she added, glancing at the merry group behind them, "you are all having such a good time."

"Never mind anything so we have the lanterns. We must let our light shine, you know; and just look at that for muscle!" cheerily returned the girl, as she swept up her loose sleeve and revealed a truly sturdy arm. "I can catch the next train, if I step lively, and I'll be back on the one that leaves at five. Make out your order, Mr. Minturn, and I'll be ready before you can say 'Jack Robinson.'"

She bounded into the house and was halfway upstairs before Mr. Minturn could get out his notebook and pencil, and in less than ten minutes was down again equipped for her trip.

"'Jack Robinson,'" solemnly repeated Mr. Minturn, but with a roguish twinkle in his eyes as he handed her the leaf which he had torn from his notebook, with his order and the address of a Boston firm written on it. "Now be off, you sprite, or you will lose your train, and you shall have your reward later," he concluded, as the trap, which he had ordered up from the stable, dashed to the door.

"I'll get my reward on the way," laughed the girl, throwing him a bright glance over her shoulder as she ran nimbly down the steps and sprang into the carriage, little thinking how true her lightly-spoken words would prove.

Four hours later the trap was again sent to the station to meet her, and, a five minutes' drive, behind the pair of spirited beauties, landed her at home once more.

Much had been accomplished during Jennie's absence, and the broad veranda was like a sylvan bower, the last nail having just been driven, the last wreath and festoon put in place; while the Seabrooks were on the point of going home to dinner as the carriage stopped before the door.

She looked pale and appeared to see no one; but, leaping to the ground, sprang up the steps, touched Katherine on the arm, saying briefly, "Come!" then fled inside the house.

Everyone wondered at her strange behavior, and Katherine immediately followed her to her room.

The moment she appeared Jennie caught her in her arms and swung to the door.

"Katherine! Katherine!" she cried, breathlessly, "I'm found!—I'm found!—I'm not a 'stray waif'—I'm not lost any longer—I'm—I'm- -"

She could say no more-her breath was spent; her emotion mastered her—and, bowing her head on her companion's shoulder, she burst into passionate weeping that shook her from head to foot.

Katherine held her in a close, loving embrace for a moment, then gently forced her into a rocker and knelt beside her, still keeping her arms around her, while she worked mentally for dominion and harmony.

But the flood-gates were open wide. The pent-up yearnings of years were let loose, and it was some time before the storm began to abate.

Once or twice she attempted to say something, then lapsed into fresh weeping, her self-control strangely shattered; for Jennie had seldom been known to shed tears in the presence of others, even under great pressure.

"Hush!" at length commanded Katherine, with gentle authority; "be still and know who has you in His care."

"That's pa-part of it!—to—to think that I—I didn't 'know'; and now it has c-come when I never really had f-f-faith to be-believe it would. I—do-don't d-deserve it," sobbed the girl, with another helpless outburst.

While Katherine is patiently waiting and working for the return of a more tranquil frame of mind, let us take a backward glance and follow Jennie on her eventful trip to Boston.

Upon her arrival in town she went directly to the store to which she had been directed and where her order was immediately filled; then finding that she had more than an hour on her hands before her train would go, she left her package to be called for and slipped into a large department store, to look at some pictures that had been recently and extensively advertised in the papers.

But before reaching the room where they were on exhibition, she was attracted another way, by seeing a crowd of people standing before an alcove that had been curtained off, and where a so- called "transformation scene" was being enacted before admiring and wondering observers.

She had never seen anything of the kind and stood like one entranced, while an exquisite marble statue, representing a beautiful girl holding a basket of flowers in her hands, slowly and mysteriously took on a lifelike appearance, until at length she stood a living, breathing maiden, smiling brightly into the faces around her, while her basket of flowers had also been changed to a cradle of bulrushes, in the midst of which lay an infant reaching up eager hands to the lovely woman above him.

Jennie watched this scene—supposed to represent "Pharaoh's Daughter and The Infant Moses"—change the second time, then turned abruptly away, just as the metamorphosis back to marble began, to find herself confronted by a fine-looking, middle-aged gentleman, who was gazing with strange intentness at her.

She would have passed him without a second glance, but, lifting his hat to her, he courteously inquired:

"Young lady, will you kindly tell me your name?"

Jennie flushed with sudden embarrassment. She had often been warned never to converse with strangers who might accost her; but, in this instance, while she had no intention of telling him who she was, she felt exceedingly awkward to refuse to grant a request so politely solicited.

"I hope you will pardon me," he continued as he observed her confusion. "I am aware that I appear presumptuous; but you are the counterpart of a sister whom I lost years ago, and whose daughter I have been vainly seeking during the last five years."

Jennie's heart bounded into her throat at this, and her discretion instantly vanished in her eagerness to verify a startling suspicion that had popped into her head while he was speaking.

"Oh, sir," she began, with a nervous catch in her breath. "I am called Jennie Wild, but that isn't really my name—I don't know what it is. My father and mother were both killed in a railroad accident when I was a baby, and a kind lady adopted me and— perhaps—oh, do you think—-" but her voice failed her utterly at this point, for her heart was panting painfully from mingled hope and fear.

The stranger smiled genially down upon her, but his own voice was far from steady, as he said:

"Suppose, Miss Wild, we go and sit down over yonder, where we will be by ourselves"—indicating a remote corner of the room—"and, perhaps, we can find out a little more about this double-puzzle; at least, we can ascertain whether your facts and mine will fit together."

He led the way and placed a chair for her in a position to shield her from observation as they talked, and then, sitting down beside her, asked her to please tell him as much of her history as she was willing he should know.

But, as we are aware, that was very little, indeed, and took only a few minutes to relate.

"Well, my child," the man observed, when; she concluded, "there is not much in what you have told me that throws any light upon what I am anxious to learn; your face and form alone seem to indicate kinship, and that may be but a singular coincidence. All the same, you shall hear my story.

"Years ago I had a sister whom I loved very dearly. She was much older than I and took the place of my mother when I lost her. I lived with this sister, after her marriage, until I was eighteen years of age, and grew to love the little daughter who came to her when I was a boy of ten, with a tenderness which I have no words to express. At the age of eighteen, an East India merchant, who dealt in spices, coffee, tea, etc., and who, having no children of his own, had made a kind of protege of me, proposed that I come to him and learn his business. His partner in the East had recently died; he was about to go abroad to take his place and suggested that this would give me a fine start in life. It was too good an opportunity to be slighted, and I eagerly accepted it. Years passed; my sister and her husband both died—their daughter married and settled in a thriving town, not far from San Francisco, Cal. Then, after a time, word came that there was another little girl in the daughter's home, and she wrote begging me to come back to her, if only for a visit, for I was now her only living relative and her lonely heart was hungry for me. I immediately made plans to do so; but my partner—who formerly had been my employer—was suddenly taken away and I was obliged to give up the trip. Nearly a year later my niece wrote very hurriedly, telling me that her husband had obtained a fine position in Chicago, that they had sold their home and were on the point of leaving for that city, but she would send me their address when they were settled. That was the last I ever heard from her, although I wrote numberless letters of inquiry to their former place of residence and also to Chicago. Complications in business made it impossible for me to come to the United States to institute a personal search, until about five years ago, and I have spent these years looking for the dear girl who so strangely disappeared after leaving her California home. I have been in nearly every large city in the land, and in each have advertised extensively, but all to no purpose. A month ago I came to Boston for the second time, and have liked the place so well I am loath to leave it. While looking at the transformation scene over yonder, I was attracted by your remarkable resemblance to my sister, as she was at your age, and could not refrain from speaking to you, hoping that I might hear a familiar name. Miss Wild, can you tell me just when this accident, which deprived you of your parents, occurred?"

Jennie gave him the date of the month and the year, and her companion's face changed as he heard it.

"That was the same month and the year that my niece left California to go to Chicago," he said. "I believe—I wonder—By the way, Miss Wild"—with a sudden start—"was there nothing about you when that woman found you, by which you could have been identified?"

"Oh, yes! I never thought!" panted Jennie, as her trembling hands flew to her throat.

In a trice she had unclasped the string of amber beads which she always wore inside her clothing, and laid them in his hand.

The man grew very white as he saw them, turned the curious clasp over and read the initials engraven there. He did not speak for a full minute. He was evidently deeply moved, and Jennie sat watching him with bated breath and tensely clasped hands.

"My dear," he finally said, "this is the 'open sesame' to everything. This and your remarkable resemblance to my sister, together with the date you have given me, prove to me beyond the shadow of a doubt that you are the daughter of my niece."

"O-h!" breathed Jennie, with tremulous eagerness.

"The initials 'A. A. to M. A. J.,' on the clasp, stand for 'Alfred Arnold to Mildred Arnold Jennison,'" the gentleman continued. "I am Alfred Arnold. When my niece wrote me of the birth of her little daughter, and that she had named her 'Mildred' for her mother, and 'Arnold,' for me, I bought this string of amber in Calcutta, had the initials engraved on the clasp and sent it to the tiny stranger."

"Then—then I am—you are—" began Jennie, falteringly.

"You are my grandniece—I am your great-uncle. My child, do you think you will care to own the relationship?"

But the girl was, for the moment, beyond the power of speech.

To have the harassing mystery of her life solved at last; to learn something definite regarding her family, even though no one remained to claim her save this distant relative, yet to find in him a cultured gentleman, and reaching out to her with tender yearning, as the only link with his past—was more than she could bear with composure. To have tried to speak just then would have precipitated a burst of tears and she "wouldn't cry in public."

So she could only throw out an impulsive, trembling hand to him and smile faintly into the grave, kind face beside her.

He folded it within his own and patted it soothingly with a fatherly air.

"Little girl, little girl!" he said, huskily, but tenderly, "I can hardly believe it! I was becoming discouraged in my quest; but I begin to think now that life is worth living, even though the dear one I sought is gone and I shall never see her again in this life."

"My mother! my father—have you their—" but Jennie was obliged to stop again because of the refractory lump in her throat.

"Yes, I have numerous photographs of them all," Mr. Arnold replied, and instinctively comprehending her thought. "I even have one of baby Mildred," he added, with a smile, "taken when she was six months old. Your mother's maiden name was Pauline West, and I have some beautiful letters from her that you will love to read some day."

"Do I look like her at all?" queried Jennie, who was beginning to forget herself and grow more composed as she drank in these interesting facts.

"No; she resembled her father, and was light, with blue eyes, though you have a way of speaking that reminds me of her. But you are almost the image of my sister—her mother—who was dark, with black eyes, and hair that curled, just as yours does, about her forehead," Mr. Arnold replied, and added: "Your father I never saw, but I have some pictures of a very nice-looking gentleman whose autograph, 'Charles E. Jennison,' is written on the back."

"And my name is 'Mildred Arnold Jennison,'" said Jennie, and drawing a long breath at the unfamiliar sounds.

"Yes, I am sure of it. With your resemblance to Annie, my sister, the dates you have given me and this string of beads I could ask for no stronger proofs," returned the gentleman as he gave back the amber necklace.

"It is a very pretty name, I think," said the girl, a happy little laugh breaking from her, "and I'm glad there is a 'Jennie' in it, for I've been called that so long I would hardly know how to answer to any other. But—oh! what time is it?" she cried, starting to her feet. "I had forgotten all about my train!"

Mr. Arnold showed her his watch, whereupon she breathed more freely.

"There is plenty of time," she added, more composedly, "but I think I must go now, for I have a package to get from another store. I hope, though, this hasn't been a 'transformation scene' that will turn back to marble or—blankness," she concluded, with a nervous laugh as she glanced towards the curtained alcove where they had met.

"Do not fear—it is all living truth, and we are going to make it seem more real every day," cheerily responded Mr. Arnold. "I will see you to your train and we will thus have a little more time together; then, very soon, I would like to come to you and meet the friends who have been so kind to you."

Jennie asked if he could make it convenient to come to Manchester on Friday, explaining why she could not make the appointment for the next day; and it was so arranged.

He accompanied her to the station and put her aboard her train, making himself very entertaining on the way by recounting interesting incidents connected with his life and travels in the East.

"You're sure you're a bona-fide uncle and no vanishing 'genie'?" she half jestingly, half wistfully remarked as the warning "All aboard!" sounded and she gave him her hand at parting.

"I'm sure of the relationship, and I think I am of too substantial proportions to become invisible to mortal eyes at a moment's warning. Whether I shall be obliged to vanish in any other way will depend upon yourself later on," Mr. Arnold smilingly replied, as he courteously lifted his hat and bowed himself away.

But during the ride home it seemed too wonderful to be true. She had dreamed of a similar revelation so many times, only to awake in the morning and find herself plain Jennie Wild, the same stray waif still hopelessly bemoaning the mystery that enshrouded her origin, that she could hardly believe she was not dreaming now.

"Mildred Arnold Jennison! Mildred Arnold Jennison!" she repeated over and over. "I don't know her; I can hardly believe she really exists; it seems more like one of the many vagaries of 'Wild Jennie' who was ever fond of imagining herself some poor little princess in disguise."

And thus, by the time she reached home, she had worked herself to the highest pitch of nervous excitement, which culminated in Katherine's arms, and which she was patiently trying to overcome when we left them to take our "backward glance."