DOROTHY.
The midwinter term at Hilton Seminary had opened on Wednesday, and
the remainder of the week passed quickly and uneventfully as
Katherine fell easily into the ways of the institution and found
herself getting well started in her various studies.
Her relations with her roommate were most harmonious, but the
majority of the students either ignored her altogether or treated
her with a coldness that, had she not had her "Science" to sustain
and comfort her, would have made her lot hard indeed to bear.
She had not met the professor again, except in the class room,
where he had seemed to be wholly absorbed in his duties as
instructor and oblivious of the personality of the students.
On Saturday afternoon she was introduced to Mrs. Seabrook while
strolling in the grounds with Miss Reynolds, between whom and
herself a growing friendliness was asserting itself. The
professor's wife was walking beside a wheel-chair, which was being
propelled by a nurse in cap and apron, and in which was seated--
propped up by pillows--a young girl who appeared to be about seven
or eight years of age, although her serious, pain-lined face and
thoughtful eyes seemed, by right, to belong to an older person.
Miss Reynolds paused on meeting this trio and introduced Katherine
to Mrs. Seabrook, who greeted her with a sweet cordiality that at
once won the girl's heart.
"I heard that we had a new student among us," she said, as she
warmly clasped Katherine's hand, "and I hope you are going to be
very happy with us, Miss Minturn."
"Thank you; not 'going to be'--I already am happy here," she
cheerily and truthfully replied, for she had become deeply
interested in her work, and, as she dearly loved to study, she was
content to leave her social relations to be governed by the love
she was "trying to live."
"This is my daughter," Mrs. Seabrook continued, as she turned a
fond look upon the pale, pinched face among the pillows. "Dorothy,
this is the young lady whom you have been wishing to see."
Katherine bent down, took the small mittened hand that was
extended to her and smiled into the grave, searching eyes that
were earnestly studying her face.
"And I also have been wishing to see Dorothy," she said, with a
note of tenderness in her tone that caused the slender fingers
inside the mitten to close more firmly over her own. "I am very
fond of little people."
"I should not be so 'little' if I were well," Dorothy returned,
with a faint sigh. Then, glancing up at her attendant, she added:
"This is my nurse, Alice, and she has to wheel me about because I
cannot walk."
Katherine bestowed a friendly look and nod upon Alice; then a
great wave of compassion for the little cripple swept over her
heart and softened her earnest brown eyes as she turned back to
her and remarked, in a cheery tone:
"You have a lovely chair. These rubber tires must cause it to roll
very smoothly and make it easy for Alice to wheel you about."
"Yes, I like my chair very much--my Uncle Phillip brought it to me
from Germany--and Alice is very nice about taking me everywhere I
want to go; but it would be so much nicer if I could walk and run
about like other girls," and Dorothy's yearning tone smote
painfully upon every listening ear.
"It certainly would, dear," Katherine returned, giving the small
hand that still clung to hers a loving pressure, adding, softly:
"And sometime you will, I hope."
The child's face glowed at the term of endearment; but her pale
lips quivered slightly at the hopeful assurance.
"Oh! no," she said, shaking her head slowly; "I have a double
curvature of the spine, and all the doctors say I never can. I--I-
-think I could bear that--not being able to walk--but the dreadful
pain sometimes makes me wish I wasn't here at all."
Katherine did not make any reply to this pathetic information. For
a moment or two she seemed to be oblivious to everything, even to
the presence of her companions, and stood looking off towards the
western sky, as if communing with some unseen presence there.
Then, suddenly arousing herself, she detached a beautiful pink
rosebud from the lapel of her jacket, saying, brightly: "Do you
love flowers, Dorothy? will you let me fasten this on your coat?
It is fresh from the greenhouse and will last some time yet.
There--see!" as she deftly pinned it in place. "What a pretty
contrast it makes against the dark-blue cloth."
"It is lovely," said the girl, bending forward to inhale its
perfume. "How perfect it is! Do you ever wonder, Miss Minturn, why
God makes the flowers and things that grow so perfect and
beautiful, and people--so many of them--imperfect and ugly?"
"My dear," Mrs. Seabrook here smilingly interposed, though a
quickly repressed sigh arose to her lips, "I hope you are not
going to involve Miss Minturn in a metaphysical discussion during
this first meeting! Dorothy has acquired a habit of philosophizing
and asking profound questions that are not always easily
answered," she explained to Katherine.
"Surely, dear, you do not think that God ever made anyone, or
anything, imperfect or ugly?" Katherine gently inquired.
The child hesitated a moment, as if pondering the question.
"Well," she presently asserted, with a positive intonation and nod
of her head, "there are a lot of deformed, sick and ugly people in
the world, and the Bible tells us that He made everything."
"The Bible tells us, in Genesis, that 'everything that God made
was good'; and, in Psalms, that 'all His ways are perfect,'"
quoted Katherine.
"Yes, I know it; that was in the beginning, though," said Dorothy;
"but if He could make things perfect in the first place I don't
see why He didn't keep them so if He is God."
"Come, come, dearie; I think we must go on now--we are keeping
Miss Reynolds and Miss Minturn from their walk," Mrs. Seabrook
again interposed, with a note of gentle reproof in her tone, as
she stooped to tuck the robe more closely around the girl.
A sunny smile, like a burst of sunshine from under a cloud,
suddenly broke over Dorothy's face, at once dispelling its
unnatural gravity and perplexity.
"I didn't think how naughty that was going to sound, mamma dear,"
she said, as, with a deprecating air, she softly patted her
mother's hand. "I'm afraid Miss Minturn will think I am not very
good; but, truly, things do seem awfully mixed up sometimes when I
get to thinking this way. I like you very, very much, though," she
added, nodding brightly at her new acquaintance. "I wish you would
come to see me in mamma's apartments when you are not too busy."
"I shall be very glad to--if I may," Katherine replied, with an
inquiring glance at Mrs. Seabrook.
"Yes, do come, Miss Minturn, whenever you can find time; we are
very glad to have the young ladies visit Dorothy, who has many
lonely hours. Now come, Alice," and, with a parting smile and bow,
she signaled the nurse to move on.
"Good-by, Miss Minturn, and thank you for my lovely rose," cried
the child, looking back over her shoulder and waving her small
hand in farewell.
"Poor child," sighed Miss Reynolds, as she and Katherine passed
out of the grounds to the highway, "she has a continual struggle
to live, yet she is a remarkable girl, in spite of her many
infirmities, with a mind bright and keen far beyond her years."
"How old is she?"
"Thirteen, a month or two ago."
"Is it possible? She does not look to be over seven or eight,
although, mentally, she seems more mature."
"That is true. She had a bad fall when she was six years old, and
her body has never grown any since the accident," Miss Reynolds
explained. "She suffers a great deal--sometimes the pain is almost
unbearable; but, as a rule, she is very lovable and patient,
though, now and then, a remark like what she made to you just now,
shows that she thinks deeply and is perplexed--like some children
of larger growth--over the knotty problems of life," she
concluded, with a sigh.
"How is it, Miss Minturn," she went on, after a moment of silence,
"how do you Scientists account for the fact that a perfect and
all-merciful God--'the Father of mercies, the God of all comfort,'
as Paul puts it--has created a world of such confusion, wherein
evil and suffering, instead of peace and harmony, are the
predominant elements?--where, for ages, sickness and death have
relentlessly mown down generation after generation, until one
becomes heart-sick and weary, and even filled with despair, at
times, in view of their probable continuance for ages to come?"
The woman's face was flushed, her eyes somber, and there was a
note of passionate protest in her voice which moved Katherine
deeply; while what she had said proved to her that these problems
had been pondered o'er and o'er until her mind was almost in a
state of chaos regarding them.
While she was debating with herself what reply she could make that
would best meet her thought, her companion resumed:
"I am a dear lover of children, but when I see anyone like
Dorothy; when I see mothers grieving for their darlings, whom God
gave them for a little while, then ruthlessly snatched from their
embrace for no apparent reason, I feel sure that something is very
wrong; and, of late years, my heart is filled with indignant
protest whenever I hear of the birth of a dear little innocent.
'Oh!' I cry within myself, 'it is born only to repeat the struggle
with sin, suffering and death.' Of what use is its life? of what
use the advent of future generations if there is no way to rise
above, or conquer, such adverse conditions? Is God good--if there
is a God--to create only to destroy? to arbitrarily force these
little innocents into the world to fight the unequal battle with
evil? Millions have faced it bravely--nobly, trusting God's
promises, but they have never succeeded in removing one iota of
the curse, 'Thou shalt surely die.' The whole problem of life is a
mystery which I am tired of trying to solve," and Katherine was
sure the woman stifled a sob as she concluded.
"Surely, dear Miss Reynolds, you do not doubt the existence of
God?" she gently inquired.
"No, child; don't think me quite an atheist," said her teacher,
with a deprecatory smile and gesture. "Life, nature, the universe,
with their teeming and ever-unfolding wonders tell me that there
is a Force--a controlling power and intelligence behind them. We
call that force 'God.' We say that God is omnipotent, all wise and
good; and certainly, in the government of the universe, everything
points that way, everything is exact and perfect. But how to
reconcile God as good, merciful, loving, with the creation and
manifestation of evil as we find it on this planet? Ah! that is
beyond me."
"Can evil come out of good?" briefly queried Katherine.
Miss Reynolds started slightly.
"No," she returned, positively; "no more than a lie can spring out
of truth; those are self-evident facts."
"Then dare we say that God--which is but another term for good,
Supreme Good--created evil?"
"Oh, do you believe in the serpent or devil? I know he comes
forward from some mysterious source in the narrative and is held
responsible. Then naturally follows the question, 'Who created his
satanic majesty?' Well, who did? If God created everything, and
evil cannot come out of good, where did evil come from? What a
paradox it seems!" she went on, without waiting for a reply. "Yet
evil does exist in the world--look at Dorothy! Think of the sin,
misery and crime all about us! Where did they come from? There are
some who contend that God did not create evil, but permits it for
some wise purpose; but that, to me, seems like a weak attempt to
clear the Almighty from the terrible responsibility of having made
sin and its deadly results without detracting from His
omnipotence."
"If a person tells you a lie, where does it come from?" Katherine
quietly inquired.
"From his own evil desire to deceive, of course."
"Exactly; it was an invention of his own evil thought, prompted by
some selfish motive. You can say the same of theft, murder--in
fact of all crime. But God--Good--is not the author of the lie, or
crime, neither does He 'permit them for some wise purpose,' as you
have quoted, any more than a just and loving human father would
teach, or permit, his son to become a criminal, claiming that he
needed such discipline to fit him for future happiness; or, any
more than you, a teacher, would put demoralizing literature into
the hands of a student as a method of discipline for higher
education."
"How perfectly absurd that sounds! And yet it is parallel to the
doctrine that has been taught for ages," said Miss Reynolds,
thoughtfully. "But I do not see how you can apply the same logic
to disease and suffering."
"The Scriptures tell us that sin brought death.' Sickness and
disease are the seeds of death; then they are the results of sin-
evil. God not being the author of sin and disease, they, like the
lie, can only originate in the evil thought or mind of the
sinner," Katherine explained.
"Then you believe that we mortals are alone responsible for all
the suffering and evil there is in the world?"
"Yes; evil is a mortal concept."
"Then how does God---What is God, from your standpoint, Kath--may
I call you Katherine?" and Miss Reynolds laid a caressing hand
upon the girl's arm as she made this request.
"Do--I should so like to have you," she replied, turning to her
with a luminous smile. "Now for your question. God is Spirit, and
'What the Scriptures declare Him to be--Life, Truth and Love,'"
[Footnote: "'Science and Health," page 330.] she added, quoting
from her text-book.
"You say Spirit, instead of 'a spirit.' Now what is this Spirit?"
"Infinite Mind, Intelligence, Omnipotent Good."
"Ah!" Miss Reynolds began, then paused abruptly. "But
intelligence, life, truth, love are characteristics, attributes
which anyone may possess and cultivate."
"Yes, considered in that sense they are attributes. But whence
came they?" Katherine demanded, with glowing eyes. "The source of
life must be Life itself, must it not? The same must also be true
of truth and love. So Life, Truth, Love, Mind, Intelligence
constitute, in Science, the Divine Principle, or God, the
controlling and governing power of the universe and man."
"Divine Principle! Mind! Intelligence! Life! Truth! Love! God!"
repeated Miss Reynolds, and dwelling thoughtfully upon each word.
Then, turning a wondering look upon her companion, she exclaimed,
almost breathlessly:
"Why, Katherine, if that is true I can understand how God can be
omnipresent! That is a doctrine of my church, that has been a
tantalizing mystery to me all my life. My dear girl," she went on
in an eager tone, "I begin to see a ray of light--I must think
more about it, though. I have always thought of Deity as a
'personal God,' and, yes"--smiling--"I used to believe in a
personal devil, too; with a very vague conception that although
the latter had always managed to keep the preponderance of power
in his hands, God would, in some miraculous manner, win the battle
in the end. But, even now"--with a look of perplexity--"I do not
grasp where or how, according to your logic, God comes in as
supreme, infinite, so long as evil exists."
"Let us go back to the lie for an illustration," said Katherine.
"You said that it originated in the person's own evil thought and
desire to deceive. Well, what happens when you turn the light of
truth upon a lie?"
"Why, it disappears--vanishes; you learn the fact and are no
longer affected by, or conscious of, the falsehood."
"Then truth has destroyed, annihilated it; it has become nothing
to you. As long as you believe a lie you are its victim and suffer
from it; but once learn the truth you are free from that illusion
and its power over you is gone. Now, you would not say that truth
created the lie, permitted it, or was in any way responsible for
it, or your suffering on account of it?"
"N-o; so God, being good--infinite good--knows nothing of evil in
any form. Is that your point, Katherine?"
"Yes; so it follows He could neither create nor permit what He
knows nothing about."
"Why!" exclaimed Miss Reynolds, turning a glowing face to the
girl, "those same arguments must hold good for everything! Then
sickness and suffering must be the outcome of wrong thought on the
part of mortals! What unlimited possibilities that suggests!
Divine Principle! I begin to understand why you call yourselves
'Scientists'--you think and live in accord with this infinite,
absolute Principle--you demonstrate it, as--as I demonstrate
mathematics."
"Yes," said Katherine, smiling; "so you see that Christian Science
is, as some one has aptly said, 'the Science of sciences.'"
"That is a very sweeping assertion," responded her teacher in a
somewhat doubtful tone. "I'll have to ruminate on that. However,
this little glimpse of a better way than I have hitherto known,
seems like an olive leaf of hope and promise to me, for I have
been tossing on a restless sea of doubt and skepticism for years,
reaching out and groping after some substantial plank that would
float me into a haven of peace and rest. But how is it that you,
so young, argue so clearly and logically about these things that
have puzzled older and wiser heads for ages?"
"I have never known anything else," said Katherine, simply. "When
I was a very little child my mother was healed of a disease which
several physicians had pronounced incurable. She at once became an
earnest student of Christian Science, and, later, a successful
practitioner; consequently its principles, as far as I have gone,
are as clear to me as those that govern your own dear mathematics
are to you. But"--a blank look suddenly sweeping over her face--"I
am afraid I have been guilty of rank disobedience in discussing
these problems with you."
"How so?" asked her teacher, in surprise.
"Prof. Seabrook has strictly forbidden me to talk of Christian
Science while I am a student at Hilton."
"Of course, he meant that you must not talk it to the other
students," said Miss Reynolds, "and it would be unwise, for,
doubtless, the parents of many, if not of all, would object. But
I, as your teacher, feel at liberty to ask you whatever questions
I choose, and you are perfectly justified in answering them."
"Ye-s, I believe you are right on that point," Katherine
thoughtfully returned. "But I would not willfully disobey the
professor in any way. I owe him perfect loyalty as long as I am a
pupil in his school, and I mean to yield it to him."
"That is right," her companion affirmed; "but you do not need to
condemn yourself for what has occurred this afternoon, for, at my
age, I am capable of judging for myself upon all moral and
religious questions, and I think you may feel at liberty to give
me any information that I may seek from you. I have not done with
you, either," she added, with a significant smile, "for you have
given me to-day a glimpse of something which I believe will change
the universe for me. Ah! whom have we here?"
She checked herself suddenly as a gentleman came into view around
a curve in the road, a short distance ahead of them.