  By the time Jennie had given Katherine a brief outline of what had occurred during the afternoon, the dinner bell sounded and warned them that they must put aside romance and startling revelations for the present and come down to the more practical and prosaic affairs of life. "But, Katherine, I can't go down," Jennie exclaimed as she sprang to the mirror and saw her red and swollen eyes. "I look a perfect fright." "Well, of course, you need not; I will send you up something nice, and you can rest and try to compose yourself, for you will want to tell us all more of this wonderful story by and by," Katherine considerately returned as she arose from her kneeling posture to obey the summons from below. "But you may set the ball rolling, dearie. I want them all to know, and they must have thought I had a queer 'bee in my bonnet' when I got home." "Very well, I will formally announce the advent of our new guest, Miss Mildred Arnold Jennison, if you wish, and I know that everyone will heartily rejoice with you," was the smiling reply. Jennie threw her arms impulsively around her friend, "Oh, Katherine! how good you always are to me!" she cried. "What a blessed thing it was for me that you chose to go to Hilton! If you hadn't I wouldn't have known about Science—I never should have come to Boston, and then I would have missed to-day, an—" "Oh, Jennie! Jennie! God governs all; He has more ways than one of leading His children, and when they are ready for the Truth it is always revealed to them," chidingly interposed her friend, but dropping a fond kiss upon the flushed cheek nearest her. "Well, but it was you who made me 'ready' for it," the girl persisted. "You were so dear yourself you made me want to be dear, too, and so my heart opened to receive the Truth. And, Katherine"- -impressively—"every day since I got your letter, just after auntie went away, I have said over to myself what you wrote me, and tried to believe it. It was this: 'Your identity is not lost; you are God's child, and that child can never be deprived of her birthright, or any other good necessary to her happiness and well- being'; only I put it in the first person." "Dear, you have made it a true prayer, and to-day you have received in part the answer to it," said Katherine, softly. "Do you think so?" said Jennie, earnestly. "Indeed, I do. You know the promise, 'If ye ask anything in My name, believing'? But I suppose I must go down," and Katherine turned to leave the room. Jennie stood still, thinking deeply for a moment. Then, before her friend could reach the stairs, she called out, the old cheery ring in her tones: "You needn't send up anything, you blessing; I'll wash my face and come down. I don't care if my eyes are red; you all love me and won't mind." So, after a little, this child of impulse joined the family below, her face radiant with happiness, in spite of the evidences of recent tears, and everybody exhibited the liveliest interest in the wonderful sequel to her life of mystery, and expressed, most cordially, their joy in view of her good fortune in finding some one akin to her. "Tell me what he looks like, honey. I'm just expiring with curiosity and impatience to see this great magician who has transformed everything for you," said Sadie, with her good-natured drawl, after Jennie had given them a more detailed account of the interview with her relative. "You just wait till you see this 'magician,' as you call him," retorted the girl, with a proud little toss of her head. "Anyone can tell, with half a glance, that he's an out-and-out gentleman. And, don't you know"—with a long sigh of content—"it is such a comfortable feeling, for I've often had a very lively squirming time all by myself when I've tried to focus my mental kodak upon some imaginary shade of my ancestors to see what he was like." It was a very happy company that congregated on the verandas the next morning to complete the preparations for the reunion of the afternoon. Dr. Stanley and the Seabrooks came over again to help arrange flowers, hang the lanterns, etc., and they were no less rejoiced than her other friends when informed of Jennie's happy discoveries of the previous day. "What are we going to do without our 'Jennie Wild'?" smilingly inquired Prof. Seabrook, as he laid a friendly hand on her curly black head. "I am afraid a good many tongues will trip a good many times before they get used to 'Miss Mildred Arnold Jennison.'" "Well, professor, you'll have the same Jennie—at least for the next two years; for I'm never going to be called anything else by my old friends," returned the girl, in a positive tone. "I don't quite know how we are going to manage about the name," she added, reflectively. "I'm free to admit, though"—with an arch look—"I think my new trimmings are rather swell; but I can't give up the Jennie. I'm sure Jennie Jennison wouldn't do—too much Jennie, you know. But I'm not going to worry about that to-day; I'm too happy, and there's too much to be done. Mrs. Minturn, where is Katherine?" she suddenly inquired, with a roguish glance at a stalwart form that was restlessly pacing the veranda. "She is in the library, answering a letter for me; she will be through very shortly. Do you want her particularly, dear?" innocently questioned the lady who was absorbed in filling a jardiniere with scarlet geraniums. "N-o, not very; only I've been growing conscious during the last few minutes that there is a—er—something lacking in the atmosphere. Dr. Stanley, do have this rocker," she interposed, with a sly smile, and pushing one towards him, "it's too warm this morning for such a waste of energy." Either by chance or intention, she had swung the chair directly opposite a low window that commanded a view of the library, where Katherine, in a familiar gown of pale yellow chambrey, was oblivious to all but the work in hand. The young man shot a searching look at the mischievous elf; then, with a quiet "thank you," deliberately took the proffered seat, but, ten minutes later, he also was missing from the company. He found Katherine seated before her own private desk, and in the act of stamping the letter which he had just seen her addressing. "I hope I do not intrude?" he observed, in a tone of polite inquiry. "No, I am just through," she replied, as she carefully pressed the still moist stamp in place with a small blotter. "I have come to ask if you have a copy of that flashlight picture of the 'Flower Carnival'" he resumed. "Dorrie's is at home, but she wishes to have some more copies, and as I am going to town to- morrow I thought I would attend to it." "Yes, I have mine right here," said Katherine, as she took a small key from a drawer and proceeded to unlock a compartment in her desk, smilingly explaining as she did so: "This is where I keep my choicest treasures—things that I do not let everyone see." "Must I look away?" demanded her companion, in a mock-injured tone. "Oh! no"—with a silvery ripple—"I am not quite so secretive as that." Removing a box, she carefully placed it one side, then brought forth a package nicely wrapped in tissue paper. Unfolding this, she disclosed several photographs, and among them was the one he had asked for. "How fortunate you were to get so good a picture!" she observed, and studied it a moment before giving it to him. "How happy Dorrie looks! Although, to see her now, one would scarcely believe that this was ever taken for her." "No, indeed! What a marvelous change a year has made in that child!" said Dr. Stanley, in an animated tone. "'A year!' I am sure you do not quite mean that," and she lifted a questioning look to him. "No, I do not—thank you for correcting me," he gravely rejoined. "Yes, or one is liable to give wrong impressions without meaning to. It is scientific to be exact, and"—with a soft sigh—"we all have to learn that by being continually on guard." There was a moment of silence, after she ceased speaking, during which Katherine began to be conscious that the atmosphere was becoming charged with an unaccustomed element, and she hastened to observe, as she glanced towards the veranda: "How lovely the house is looking! Have you your camera here?" "I am sorry I have not, for we ought to have some views of it. We will have," he added. "I will have a photographer from the village come up before the day is over and take some." As he concluded, by some careless handling, the picture of the Flower Carnival slipped from his grasp, and in trying to recover it his arm came in contact with the box, which Katherine had taken from her treasure closet, displacing the cover and almost upsetting it. "Oh!" cried the girl, in a startled tone, but flushing scarlet as she saved it from falling and hastily replaced the cover. She was not quick enough, however, to prevent her companion seeing, with a sudden heart bound of joy, that the box contained a spray of dried and faded moss rosebuds. He turned a radiant face to her, and her eyes drooped in confusion before the look in his, while the color burned brighter in her cheeks. "Miss Minturn—Katherine! Did you prize them enough to keep them— here?" and he touched the door of her "treasure closet" "They are a—a souvenir of a delightful evening—my last at His countenance fell; yet something in the tense attitude of the figure beside him, in her quickened breathing and fluctuating color emboldened him to ask: "Did they convey no message to you? had they any special significance? Tell me—tell me, please!" "They had not—then," she confessed, almost inaudibly. "Then?" he repeated, eagerly. "I did not know—I had not looked—-" "You did not know their language then; but you do now, dear?" he said, a glad ring in his tones. "And may I tell you that my heart and all its dearest hopes went with those little voiceless messengers? That was Why—" "Oh! Uncle Phillip, the carriage has come for us and we are waiting for you," cried Dorothy's voice from the low, open window on the opposite side of the room, and for the first time in his life a feeling of impatience with his niece stirred in Phillip Stanley's heart. "Why! is anything the matter?" she added, as she observed Katherine's averted eyes and unusual color and her uncle's unaccustomed intensity. "I'll be with you in a minute, Dorrie," he said. "Just one word," he pleaded, bending nearer to Katherine, "have you treasured my messengers because of their message?" But Katherine could not speak even the "one word"—the fluttering of her startled heart, the throbbing in her throat robbed her of the power to make a sound. The most she could do was to lift her eyes, for one brief instant, and smile faintly into the fond face looking down upon her. It was enough, however. Phillip Stanley stood erect and drew in a long, free breath. "Coming, Dorrie!" he called out, as the girl made a movement to step over the low sill into the room; "no, there is nothing the matter—I came to ask Miss Minturn for the Flower Carnival picture, to have it copied for you." "How nice of you, Uncle Phillip! You are always so thoughtful for me!" said unsuspicious Dorothy. The man's laugh rang out full and clear, but with a note of genuine mirth in it that made Katherine's cheeks tingle afresh, for it told her that his main object in seeking her had not been to get the picture. "Oh! if that child would but vanish!" he thought, with an adoring look at the pretty, drooping figure in its dainty robe of pale yellow; but little Miss Marplot evidently had no such intention, and he reluctantly turned away to save Katherine further embarrassment. "Good-by, Miss-Katherine; we will be with you again this afternoon," he said, with a thrill in his voice as it lingered over the name; then he stepped through the low window, slipped his arm around unconscious Dorrie and led her away to the carriage. The reunion of the afternoon was a most delightful occasion. Mr. Minturn had chartered a yacht to take the whole party out for a few hours' sail, and, the day being perfect, the sea in its bluest attire and quietest mood, there was nothing to mar their enjoyment, and the experience proved ideal for everyone. They returned just at sunset, to find numerous daintily laid tables awaiting them on one of the broad verandas and groaning beneath an abundance of the many luxuries that had been provided to tempt and regale; while spotlessly attired maids and white- jacketed men were in attendance to serve the hungry excursionists. As twilight dropped down o'er land and sea, as the numerous lanterns were lighted and flung their soft radiance and vivid spots of color upon the scene, while a fine orchestra discoursed melodiously from some green-embowered nook, the place seemed like an enchanted realm where one might almost expect to discern, flitting among the playful shadows, those weird forms that people the elf land of childhood's fancy— "Fairies, black, gray, green and white, And thus the evening was spent in a delightfully informal manner, each and all appearing to feel as if they were members of one happy family, as, indeed, they were, in Truth and Love. But the final farewells had to be said at length, for railway time-tables are absolute, and the last train for Boston would leave at ten o'clock. At half-past nine the carriages were at the door and fifteen minutes later all were gone, excepting the Seabrooks, who lingered for a few last words with the family, and to take leave of Miss Reynolds, who would go home on the morrow. They were all standing together in the brilliantly lighted reception hall, Dorothy with one arm linked within her father's, the other encircling Katherine's waist. "Hasn't it been a wonderful day, papa?" said the girl, during a little lull in the general conversation. "It certainly has, dear," he replied, giving the small arm a fond pressure. "And see!" she continued, glancing around the circle, "all of us, except Mr. and Mrs. Minturn, belong to Miss Katherine." "Well, bless my heart!" here laughingly interposed Mr. Minturn. "Miss Dorothy, I think that is very unceremoniously crowding us out of our own domain." "You'll know I didn't mean to do any crowding when I tell you my thought," she returned, and nodding brightly at him. "You see, it was she who interested everyone of us in Science, and I think we ought to be called Miss Katherine's sheaves. You know it says in the Bible 'he who goes forth bearing precious seed shall come again bringing his sheaves with him.' She sowed the seed at Hilton and has 'gathered us all in' here." "That is a very sweet thought, Dorrie, and it is true enough, too," said her mother, as she bestowed a fond look upon Katherine. "But," she added, moving towards the door, "we must go home this very minute, for it is getting late," and with general "good- nights" they also went away. Katherine followed them out upon the veranda, where she stood leaning against the balustrade and watched their forms melt away in the darkness, a thrill of loving gratitude in her heart, for, were they not indeed her "sheaves"? Presently she heard a step behind her, then a firm yet gentle hand was laid upon hers. "May I have it for always, Katherine?" questioned Phillip Stanley, in a low voice, as he lifted and inclosed it in both of his. "I could not say half I wished this morning, dear. Poor Dorrie!"—in a mirthful tone—"did not realize how exceedingly de trop she was, and, for a moment, I was half tempted to be cross with her. I saw Mr. and Mrs. Minturn after I returned from my drive and told them something of what I had tried, under such difficulties, to make you understand." "You told papa and mamma!" "I had to—I simply could not keep it. I know you had given me no verbal authority to ask for what I wanted; but, ah!—that look, that smile, as I left you, made me bold enough for anything." "And they—" "They told me that it would have to be just as Katherine said. Involuntarily the girl's slender fingers closed over his hand as she lifted frank, sweet eyes to him. "Yes, Phillip." Softly, shyly, the coveted answer fell on his ears. "That means that you are mine, as I am yours," he said, a great joy throbbing in his tones, "and"—reverently—"we are also to be one, in heart and purpose, in the service of our great cause." Drawing the hand he held within his arm, he led her down the steps out among the fairy shadows to a great rock that overlooked the sea. Meantime, the "news" was being whispered among the family inside and was received with general satisfaction, Sadie, particularly, expressing great delight in view of what she termed a "perfectly elegant match." Jennie, on the other hand, accepted it as a matter of course. "It didn't need to be announced, at least to me," she declared, with a wise nod of her head. "I've seen it coming this long while, for Science isn't the only absorbing subject that a certain gentleman has been investigating during the last year and a half. But just let me tell you—if my name had been Jimmy instead of Jennie that handsome M.D. wouldn't have found such clear sailing in this harbor." When Katherine finally came in, trying hard to appear unconscious, but looking rosy and starry-eyed, Sadie sprang forward and threw her arms around her, kissing her heartily. Then drawing back, but still holding her a prisoner, she mockingly exclaimed: "Moss rosebuds! Katherine, have you ever taken the trouble to ascertain what they mean when sent by a swain to a maid?" "Oh! Sadie, how you do love to tease!" cried the blushing girl as she tried in vain to release herself from the clinging arms. "Well, honey," continued her tormentor, "it was as plain as A B C to me that night, and I chuckled right smart to myself when I saw you innocently pin them, on your breast. It was simply delicious! But"—suddenly laying her hands on the pretty brown head—"bless you, my children! you have my unqualified sanction and I'll put my whole heart into my toes when I dance at your wedding." With a light laugh the gay girl bounded to the piano and vigorously began playing Mendelssohn's wedding march. But Katherine had vanished. Phillip Stanley, however, sitting on the veranda, across the way, caught the suggestive strains and laughed softly to himself, as, in imagination, he surmised something of what was going on in the Minturn mansion. The following day brought Mr. Arnold to make his promised call upon Jennie and her friends, when, as the proud and happy girl had predicted, it did not require much discernment to realize that he was every whit a "gentleman." He told them, among other things, that his life had been rather a lonely one, as he had no family. Several years after going to the East he had married the daughter of a planter, but she had been taken from him two years after their union, and he had never cared to marry again. When his partner died he became sole proprietor of their business, which he had successfully conducted until he determined to return to America, when he had sold out to some of his clerks, satisfied to retire with a moderate fortune and allow them to have their day, as he had had his. He brought with him letters, papers and numerous photographs which convinced Mr. Minturn that he was, in truth, akin to Jennie and entitled to be her future protector, as he both desired and claimed the right to be. He expressed his grateful appreciation of what the Minturns, particularly Katherine, had done for his niece, but insisted upon refunding all that they had thus far expended upon her education. "It is but just and right," he persisted, when Katherine demurred, saying it had been "a love offering, and she did not wish it back." "I am abundantly able to do it and also to give her every advantage in the future. I do feel, however, that nothing can ever repay you for the great kindness you have shown her." He afterwards had a private conversation with Jennie, during which he proposed to legally adopt her, if she had no objection to taking his name, and would be content to make her home with an "old gentleman" like himself. "Content!" she exclaimed, drawing an ecstatic breath. "Well, for a girl who has always felt that she didn't really belong anywhere, that is a prospect that would just about turn my head if I hadn't found a new chart and compass to steer by. As for the 'old gentleman,' if you don't mind"—with a roguish glance but flushing slightly—"I'd—like to tell you I think he is just dear." "I wonder what I'll have to pay for that?" said Mr. Arnold, laughing, but with a suspicious moisture in his eyes. "Well," said Jennie, cocking her head on one side and giving him an arch look, "if you'll try to think the same of me we'll call it square." "That won't be such a difficult task," he replied, gently touching a curling lock on her forehead that was so like his sister's. "As for the name," Jennie resumed, more seriously, "you say my middle one was given me for you; why not transpose it and call me Mildred Jennison Arnold? Then I can keep them all, and it will not seem out of place to still address me as 'Jennie.'" This was regarded as a happy thought, and, as soon as the necessary papers could be made out, she became Alfred Arnold's legally adopted daughter. His chief thought now appeared to be to make her life as happy as possible, and, after consulting her wishes, he purchased a lovely home very near Hilton Seminary, secured a competent and motherly woman for a housekeeper, and thus the girl was enabled to continue her course at school, as a day scholar, and enjoy her delightful home at the same time. Dr. Stanley also bought a fine residence in the same locality, and early in January Katherine was back once more to take up her life work 'mid old familiar scenes, greatly to the delight of the Seabrooks and her many other friends. Her husband still retained his office in the city, but with a new sign now hanging in his window—"Phillip Harris Stanley, M.D., Christian Scientist," and already he was becoming widely known as a successful practitioner. Soon after their return, in the fall, Prof. Seabrook and his family identified themselves with the Scientists of the city, and also with "the Mother Church" in Boston. Some of the pupils dropped out of Hilton, because of this step, but others came to fill their places, and a year later both wings of the building had been extended and a most flourishing condition of affairs prevailed. Miss Reynolds had resigned her position at Hilton, at the beginning of the year, and remained at home with her mother, and where she also had taken up her work for Truth. Sadie Minot, having attained her majority and come into possession of her fortune, decided that she would be happier to locate near her old friends, with whom she was in such close religious sympathy, and she accordingly found a pleasant home in the city and resumed the study of French, German and music. One morning, late in February, she went up on the hill to spend the day with Katherine, who often claimed her for such a visit, for their friendship was one of the dearest things of their lives. To-day, however, Sadie appeared to have some weighty subject on her mind, for she was unusually thoughtful, and Katherine was beginning to wonder if anything was troubling her, when she drew forth a letter and, passing it to her, said: "Read that, honey, and tell me what you think of it." With a dim suspicion of what was coming, Katherine drew forth the missive from its envelope and read: "DEAR SADIE: When the prodigal faced about to go back to his home, his father went forth to meet him. I have faced about; I have returned to my father and—our Father. The one has welcomed and forgiven, and Truth is teaching me what true forgiveness of sin is—the destruction of sin in the human consciousness. Now I turn to you to seek pardon—nay, I suppose I should 'know' that I am already pardoned, since you also are learning to recognize man only as his Father's 'image and likeness.' At the same time, some acknowledgment is due for wrong that I have done you. Truth compels me to confess that my motive in seeking you, two years ago, was not good, and I am now ashamed of my later persecution— it was unworthy of any man. And now, justice to myself prompts me to say that, underneath, there was a real fondness for you, and I find—now that I am clothed and in my right mind—that it had acquired even a stronger hold upon me than I then realized. I write this because I am soon to go abroad for an indefinite period—have been appointed confidential secretary to——, who goes, in March, as United States Minister to England. All I am, together with the brighter prospects before me, I owe to Phillip Stanley, who, next to her who has given to this sin-burdened world the message of Love that has saved me, commands my deepest gratitude and respect. Send me one word, Sadie—'forgiven'—and I shall leave my country with a lighter heart than I have known for years. NED." Katherine lifted moist eyes, to her friend after reading and refolding the letter. "Phillip says the change in him is wonderful—he saw him, you know, when he was at home for Christmas," she observed. "Shall you send him the word he asks for, Sadie?" Miss Minot did not reply for a moment, and her flushed face drooped lower over the embroidery in her hands. At last she said, slowly: "Honey, I have sent him a word; but it was 'Come'!" "Sadie!" "Yes, and"—a shy smile playing around the corners of the girl's mouth—"a telegram received last night reads: 'Coming Thursday; sail March thirtieth; can you get ready?'" "You fairly take my breath away!" exclaimed Katherine, amazed. "I reckon he'd hardly expect anything else, after I had said 'Come,' would he?" queried Sadie, sweeping her friend a shy look from under her lashes. "It seems to me you are not quite so averse to a European trip as you were a year and a half ago," Mrs. Stanley observed, in a significant tone. Sadie laughed out merrily. "Well"—the old Southern drawl manifesting itself—"at that time, honey, the attraction to stay was the same that it now is to go." "I am glad, Sadie—I really am," said Katherine, after a thoughtful pause. "Phillip and I have often wondered how things would eventually arrange themselves for you two. I must say, though, the way you've managed it is unique in the annals of history," and she burst into a hearty laugh. "Think so? Well, you see, I didn't have any preserved moss rosebuds to send him," retorted Miss Minot, with a chuckle. "Sadie, will you never let up on those rosebuds?" cried Katherine, still laughing. "However, as I said before, I am glad; you are practically alone in the world and will be happier to have a home of your own, and I think I would feel very sorry to have Mr. Willard go to a far country all by himself. Now, I am going to have you come right to me until you go," she went on, with animation. "You shall be married here. I will matronize you, and we will have all the old school friends on hand to give you a rousing send-off." "How perfectly lovely of you, Katherine! It will surely be a great comfort to me—give me such a homey feeling, you know, and I—" but Sadie's tremulous lips and an unmanageable lump in her throat would not permit her to go on. "I shall love to do it, dear. It will give me a fine opportunity to entertain our classmates and other friends," Katherine hastened to say. "But how perfectly funny!" she cried, gayly, "to be planning for your wedding, and you two lovers haven't yet come to a definite understanding?" "Oh! yes, we have, honey. Ned knows, as well as I, that everything was settled by that one word, 'Come.' Nothing but details remain to be arranged. But—oh! Katherine, how I shall miss you!" she concluded, yearningly, for, as we know, during their two years' friendship there had been scarcely a cloud to obscure the harmony between them. 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