"Ned, I am more glad than I can tell you, and my best wishes go with you," heartily returned his friend. "Wouldn't you like to take the book along as a souvenir?" he asked, pushing it towards him.
"Thanks, I've just bought one for myself, and I don't need any souvenirs to remind me of you; for, Stanley, all I am and all I hope to be I owe to you, or—I suppose you would prefer me to say- -to God, through you. But if I am to catch that fast express I must skip. I'll write to you, though, when I am settled."
The two men clasped hands and looked deep into each other's eyes for a moment; then the younger turned abruptly away and left the room, the elder gravely watching the manly form as it sped, with alert and vigorous steps, down the street.
"God bless the boy!" he said, in a low tone; "he has 'got at the secret of it' at last, and his life henceforth will be crowned with joy and peace."
CHAPTER XXIII.
MRS. MINTURN VISITS HILTON.
Everything moved along harmoniously with Katherine in school. Of course, there was work to be done and it required diligence, patience and perseverance to accomplish her daily tasks. But there is always satisfaction in overcoming difficulties, for such conquest never fails to strengthen and uplift.
Between Sadie and herself there existed the tenderest relations. Every day seemed to draw them closer to each other, for divine Love was now the mutually acknowledged bond between them. The girl had provided herself with the necessary books and was doing more than "looking towards the Light"—she was really trying to walk in it. She was also striving to "do her best" during this, her last year at school, as she had avowed she would, and was reaping her reward by finding that she was daily gaining in mental strength and capacity.
Jennie also was making good progress. She did not love fun and frolic one whit less, but she now sought it in legitimate hours and ways, and never allowed herself to "kick over the traces," or, in other words, to break rules, and so jeopardize her record, although, as she once confessed, with the old mischievous sparkle in her eyes, "the apples of Sodom did look very alluring sometimes."
So the Christmas vacation found them, and Katherine and Jennie went "home" to New York City, where every day was filled with delightful experiences, Mr. and Mrs. Minturn having spared nothing to make these holidays the brightest of the year, especially for their protegee whose pleasures had been so limited.
There was nothing to mar their enjoyment during the two "heavenly" weeks. They were like a pair of happy children, and not the least of their pleasure consisted in helping Mrs. Minturn distribute her yearly reminders among those of whom One said, "The poor ye always have with you." And when, on Christmas morning, at breakfast, the packages beside the various plates were inspected, there were bright faces and loving smiles, and in one case almost a rain of tears, in view of the numerous and lovely mementoes for which the recipient was wholly unprepared. But it was only a "sunshower," and when Mr. Minturn, with a quizzical look, told her to "take care, for she was losing some of her pearls," she laughingly wiped the glittering drops away and retorted:
"I wish they were real pearls, and I would heap them upon you all."
When it was all over and the two girls were rolling swiftly on their way back to school, Jennie, her face radiant with delightful memories, informed Katherine that she had "never had such an out and out jolly time in all her life before."
"It is like a diamond to me," she said, "for it will glisten and sparkle in my mind as long as I remember anything about this life. But, best of all," she continued, earnestly, "has been the Science part of it; those lovely services and meetings! and your mother's talks! Oh! Katherine, if I could be with her all the time I know I should grow to be a good Scientist!"
Katherine smiled into the yearning dark eyes.
"Our growth, Jennie, depends upon our own right thinking and living, upon the faithfulness with which we study, assimilate and demonstrate Truth," she said; then added: "Right environment is very desirable, but when we lean upon that instead of on God, or Principle, we are not 'working out our own salvation,' which everyone must do. You know what happened to the five foolish virgins who leaned, or tried to lean, upon their neighbors for oil to fill their lamps."
"Yes; and it's like copying some one else's problems and shirking your own daily work. When the exams come you're not 'in it'; you just have to 'go way back and sit down,'" and the roguish dimples played in her cheeks as the slang phrases slipped glibly from her tongue. "All the same," she continued, "it is a help to have others about you doing good work. Somehow it inspires you to hustle for yourself—that is, if you honestly want to be the real thing and not a sham."
The latter part of February Mrs. Minturn, having been called to the western part of the State on business, stopped at Hilton on her way back, to spend the Sabbath and make "my girls" a little visit.
That visit was like an oasis to Prof. Seabrook, or, as he afterwards expressed it, "it shone in his memory like a pure, lustrous pearl set in jet."
Saturday afternoon was spent with Katherine and Jennie, doing a little needful shopping and visiting some places of interest in the city. Saturday evening, a party, including the Seabrooks, Sadie, Miss Reynolds and Dr. Stanley, was made up to go to hear Madam Melba, who was to sing in "Faust," and a rich treat it proved for them all.
Sunday morning found them all, except the principal and his wife, at the service in the hall on Grove Street, and which was now far too small to comfortably accommodate the people who were flocking to it; while Sunday evening, at Mrs. Seabrook's invitation, saw our friends gathered in her spacious parlor to listen to a little talk on Christian Science from Mrs. Minturn.
"I see you each have your book," she began, glancing around the circle, "and I think we cannot do better than to look into the tenets of our faith—you will find them on page 497. There is much more than at first appears in those few brief paragraphs, and I hope no one will let a point go by, if it seems perplexing, without trying to get at the heart of it. Don't fear to interrupt me with questions, for they will show me your trend of thought."
Then, one by one, she took up the sections, which were freely and thoughtfully discussed. Prof. Seabrook, however, was the chief interlocutor of the evening and plied the patient woman with queries both practical and profound.
She met him logically on every one, and by the time they had come to the end of the fifth paragraph much of the perplexity had vanished from the man's face and a look of peace was enthroned in its place, while not one in the room ever forgot that hour, which was so fraught with helpfulness and intense interest to them all.
"Mrs. Minturn," he gravely observed, as she paused for a moment, "when one begins to understand something of what Christian Science really is, one finds himself suddenly shorn of his former intellectual arrogance and ecclesiastical intolerance, while he stands abashed and is amazed that he had never seen these things before."
"That is because, in our previous study of the Scriptures, we were governed by human opinions, doctrines and creeds, instead of by the spiritual law of interpretation, which always brings the proof of its supremacy."
"But it makes one wish one hadn't been quite so pert in flaunting one's feathers before finer birds," drawled Sadie, as she shot a peculiar glance at Katherine, "like a turkey we had at home once that had never seen a peacock's plumage until after he had done a good deal of strutting around, with his own self-sufficient appendage spread out to its widest extent. He collapsed, though, when he saw that blaze of glory."
"Thank you, Sadie, for so pat an illustration of an exceedingly uncomfortable frame of mind," said Prof. Seabrook, with a merry twinkle in his fine eyes, while an appreciative laugh ran around the circle.
The girl flushed scarlet in sudden dismay.
"Prof. Seabrook!" she faltered, "I didn't mean—I was only thinking of what I said to Katherine about being a Christian Scientist the day she came here. I told her, very grandly, that I was an Episcopalian, that my grandfather was an Episcopalian clergyman, and I had my doubts about his resting easy in his grave if he knew what a rank heretic I had for a roommate. Well, she just unfurled a white banner of Love to me, and I've wanted to hide my diminished head every time I've thought of it since."
"All right, Sadie; there's no offense," returned the principal, with a smiling glance at her still flushed cheeks, "and I think there may be some others among us who have learned a salutary lesson from our modest but stanch 'brown-eyed lassie,' for she certainly has tried, as she told me she would on that same day, 'to live her religion of Love.' But," turning again to Mrs. Minturn, "that reminds me of something else I wished to ask you."
Reopening his book, he read aloud the sixth tenet, emphasizing the phrase "to love one another."
"I find, in reading this book," he resumed, "that you Scientists give a higher signification to that word 'love' than is implied by the ordinary interpretation. Mere sentiment or emotion have nothing in common with your concept of its meaning?"
"Our Leader says, in her book of 'Miscellaneous Writings,' [Footnote: By Mary Baker G. Eddy, page 230.] that 'no word is more misconstrued, no sentiment less understood,'" said Mrs. Minturn. "Spiritual love is governed by its principle—divine Love. Emotional or sentimental love has no principle. It is governed by mortal impulse, moods, personal attraction, and so forth. Divine Love has but one impulse—infinite impersonal good. Paul's sublime definition of charity, or the love that 'beareth all things,' 'that never faileth,' 'that thinketh no evil,' is the Christian Science idea of love, and as our text-book teaches, nothing short of this, lived and demonstrated in the daily life, is Christian Science love."
"That is your lesson to me over again," whispered Miss Reynolds, who was sitting beside Katherine, "and I need it."
"But you would not abolish human love?" Dr. Stanley here abruptly questioned.
"I would have it governed, transformed by divine Love," returned Mrs. Minturn, gently. "There is much more of selfishness embodied in so-called human love than one can realize until one learns its spiritual signification. The mother's is the purest of all human affection, and yet, even this is not devoid of selfishness, for it is 'my boy' or 'my girl' for whom she will toil and efface herself to secure advantages, and often to their detriment. The love that is absorbed in my wife or husband, my sister or brother, my friend, is not the truest, although it is right to care tenderly for those who are dependent upon us. But the yearning that reaches out to all men, recognizing in everyone 'my mother, my sister, my brother'—for all are God's children, and there are no mine or thine in Truth—is the love of God, the reflected Love that is God."
"I see, Mrs. Minturn; it is manifesting what the 'little book' says, the 'love of Love,' [Footnote: "Science and Health," page 319.] or the good of Good without regard to personality, so if we are reflecting it we cannot even think anything but good of everyone," here interposed Dorothy, who had listened intently to all that had been said.
"You dear child! how much better you have said it than I with my multiplicity of words!" observed Mrs. Minturn, bending a look of affection upon her.
"She has simply summarized what you have given us; but your analysis has been very helpful to me, and I now see more clearly much that I have been questioning during my recent perusal of the book," Prof. Seabrook remarked.
"Our Leader has long been reflecting this impersonal Love in her wonderful devotion to the Cause she has espoused," Mrs. Minturn resumed. "Her one thought and motive is and always has been—since the Science of Christianity was revealed to her—to send forth the new gospel to all 'nations and peoples and tongues,' and gather them under its sacred banner, knowing that it is the 'pillar of cloud by day and of fire by night' that will surely guide them into the 'Promised Land.'"
"Yet she is severely criticised for claiming that it was a divine revelation; for assuming 'unwarrantable authority' and demanding 'unquestioning obedience,'" said her host.
"Is that a fair or an honest criticism, Prof. Seabrook?" inquired his guest. "Has she not proved that Christian Science was a divine revelation, not only by her own wonderful demonstrations, but by the marvelous results which follow the study of her book, 'Science and Health,' not to dwell upon the great work accomplished by the thousands of her students who have faithfully followed her teachings? Then, a leader must lead. Under supreme orders she became the pioneer to mark the way for others; she has scaled heights which no others have attained since the days of the Master, and so she alone is fitted to direct. You, after long experience, have organized this school; you know best what is most needed to promote the highest interests of your students and maintain the superior standard of your institution. But your word has to be law to attain these conditions, and you insist upon implicit obedience to your rules and mandates. Are you autocratically exacting or 'assuming unwarrantable authority' by so doing in order to meet the responsibilities devolving upon you? As I said before, 'a leader must lead,' and a general must direct, as he discerns the need from his vantage ground above the field of battle, or the cause would be lost."
"I see your point. It is fairly and logically argued, and I am frank to admit that much of the criticism of Mrs. Eddy may be prompted by antagonism, jealousy and prejudice," the gentleman returned.
"But much more it is the outgrowth of misunderstanding," said Mrs. Minturn, charitably. "Those who have most uncompromisingly denounced Christian Science and its Founder have spoken and written without a proper knowledge of their subject, without having even attempted to investigate, in order to prove the truth or error of what they had heard. They claim to have 'read the book,' but you know, from your own experience, that one casual reading is not sufficient to enable one to grasp the fundamental principles contained therein."
"That is true," he assented.
"And no man of good judgment," she went on, "would feel that he was prepared to write a treatise or exposition of some profound subject and give it to a critical public, until he had thoroughly mastered it; and this he would know he could not do in one, or even two, superficial readings. But these criticisms do not disturb us; they only make us love our Leader more, for her sweet patience, forbearance and forgiveness; and we know that the time will come when all will learn the Truth, 'from the least to the greatest,' and 'rise up to call her blessed.'"
"I am beginning to see that, too," said the professor. "But there is one thing more. Of course, you have had to meet the question many times—one hears it everywhere, and the papers every now and then reiterate it—how about the high price of the text-book and the teaching?"
"I would hardly have thought that such a question would have suggested itself to you, Prof. Seabrook, knowing, as you do, the high price demanded for some of your own text-books. Then, regarding the teaching, Hilton students pay from eight hundred to a thousand dollars a year, according to the privileges they enjoy, not counting the extras; and the course is four years, making quite a round sum in the aggregate. You force me to be personal as well as practical in my arguments," Mrs. Minturn interposed, with an arch smile. "Now for the other side of the question. Seventeen years ago I was healed of what several physicians—to whom I paid many hundreds of dollars—said was an incurable disease, by simply reading 'Science and Health,' for which I paid three dollars. A year later I studied with one of Mrs. Eddy's loyal students, to whom I paid one hundred dollars for my course of instruction. Since that time I have never employed a physician or paid out a penny for medicines. In view of these facts, do you think that the price of the book and teaching should be regarded as 'exorbitant,' 'out of all reason,' an 'imposition upon the public,' and many similar expressions, as are repeated over and over by numerous denouncers and newspapers?"
Prof. Seabrook made a deprecatory gesture.
"I am ashamed to have raised such a point," he said; "it seems exceedingly narrow and petty."
"And besides," Mrs. Minturn continued, "this same book and teaching have enabled me to heal hundreds of people of all manner of diseases, and send them on their way rejoicing and to help others. Ah!" she cried, with eyes that shone through starting tears, "how can anyone speak slightingly of that dear woman who has been instrumental in giving such a boon to suffering humanity, or criticise any act which, in her God-given wisdom, she is led to do? But, I am sure, I have talked enough for now, although I am at your service at any time if other questions arise to perplex," she concluded, as she arose, and the little company, after a few moments spent in social converse, separated for the night.
A few days later Miss Reynolds sought Katharine. The girl was in a music room, where she had been practicing for nearly an hour, and arose as her friend entered, an expectant look on her face, for she seemed to feel at once that there was something unusual in the atmosphere.
The woman was evidently in a strangely serious mood. There was an expression of exaltation in her eyes, which told of some deep, new experience that had aroused profound reverence and wonder, and a drooping of her sweet lips that bespoke a spirit bowed beneath a sense of humility, and she carried a letter in her hand.
"Read that, dear," she said, in a repressed tone, as she passed it to her pupil.
Katherine removed the missive from its envelope and read:
"MISS ADELE REYNOLDS:
"DEAR MADAM: My father, as, possibly you may have heard ere this, passed away one week ago to-day. You will perhaps be surprised to learn that I have long known there existed an error at the time of the settlement of Mr. Reynolds'—your father's—affairs nearly eleven years ago, and, although I sought several times to do so, I was powerless to have the matter rectified. Now, however, my sister and I, being the only heirs to our father's property, have agreed that justice must be done, and have deposited in the First National Bank of this city the amount—with accrued interest—that is your rightful due, and it is subject to your order. Trusting that you will kindly throw the veil of charity over what has been a great wrong, I am,
"Very respectfully yours, JOHN F. HOWARD."
As she finished reading this letter Katherine looked into the eyes of her teacher and smiled.
"Kathie, I can hardly believe it!" said Miss Reynolds, in a voice choked with tears.
"'The measure that ye mete shall be measured to you again,' you know," softly returned her companion, "and love begets love. You, long since, threw the mantle of Love over your 'brother,' and Truth has uncovered and destroyed the error—in other words, the greed—that seemed to rob you of what was justly yours."
"It makes me very humble," faltered her teacher. "I have tried to love because, to be loyal to Truth, I must do nothing else."
"Yes, and so Love has fulfilled the law; and, as our text-book says, 'Mercy cancels the debt only when justice approves.'" [Footnote: "Science and Health," page 22]
"And Katharine"—and Miss Reynolds' face glowed with happiness— "now the way is opened for me to do what I had decided I must do by the end of this year—'go work in His vineyard.' I did not clearly see how I could do it, but I have tried to know that 'God is the source of all supply, and I left it there.'"
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE END OF SCHOOL DAYS.
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.'"
CHAPTER XXV.
A MOMENTOUS ERRAND.
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."