INTERESTING DEVELOPMENTS.
Phillip Stanley sped across the street to do his errand and
inquired for Katherine.
She heard his voice and went directly to him when he told her what
her mother had just said about Dorrie, and the light that leaped
into her great brown eyes inspired him with fresh hope.
"Ah! mamma is holding her in the 'secret place,' and we know she
is safe," she said, in a reverent tone.
She quickly brought the wrapper; then, with a brief handclasp, he
bade her "good-night" and retraced his steps.
Before going upstairs he sought the kitchen, where the cook was
lingering, thinking something might be needed, and ordered a
dainty lunch prepared; then, taking both tray and garment, he left
them at Dorrie's door and passed on to the next room to find his
sister just waking.
"Phillip!" she cried, starting up, "I have been asleep!"
"Yes, Emelie, for more than three hours, I am glad to say."
"Oh, how inconsiderate of me! And--Dorrie?" she questioned, in a
quavering voice.
"Is more comfortable. She has been awake twice, and had two
glasses of milk," replied her brother, as he laid a gentle, but
restraining hand upon her shoulder, for she was on the point of
rising.
She regarded him wonderingly.
"Phillip! I can't believe it! I must go to her," she said, almost
breathless.
"No; Mrs. Minturn is going to remain all night. She says she is
not to be disturbed, and we must respect her wishes," said Dr.
Stanley, authoritatively. "She will call you if you are needed,
but says she wants us both to rest, if possible. Now lie down
again, dear, and I will sit in the Morris chair in the hall, to be
near if you wish to speak to me."
Mrs. Seabrook sat irresolute a moment, her eyes anxious and
yearning.
"Emelie, you have voluntarily given Dorrie into God's hands; now
prove that you trust Him," her companion gravely admonished.
She looked up at him and smiled.
"Yes, I will; and I believe that 'His hand is not shortened that
it cannot save, nor His ear heavy that it cannot hear,'" she
replied, and immediately lay back upon her pillow.
Her brother covered her with a shawl, then left her with a
thankful heart, for he knew she was sadly in need of rest.
Going to his room, he secured his copy of "Science and Health,"
and, retracing his steps, settled himself to read by the table in
the hall, which was often used as a sitting room.
As he sat down he observed that Mrs. Minturn's wrapper and the
tray had disappeared; then he became absorbed in his book.
The next he knew a hand was laid softly on his shoulder, and,
starting erect, he saw that a new day was just breaking and Mrs.
Minturn standing beside him, looking as fresh and serene as if she
had just come from hours of sweet repose instead of from a long
night's vigil.
"Dorrie is hungry," she said, "and I think it would be well if you
would arouse one of the maids and have something nice prepared for
her."
"I will; what shall it be?" said the man, springing nimbly to his
feet, but scarcely able to credit his ears.
"A dropped egg and a slice of toast, with a glass of milk, will
perhaps be forthcoming as quickly as any-thing--"
"Wait, Phil--don't call anyone. I will get it," interposed Mrs.
Seabrook's voice, just behind them. "Dorrie hungry!" she added,
wonderingly. She had heard Mrs. Minturn's request, and hurried out
to convince herself that she was not dreaming.
"Yes, so she says," said Mrs. Minturn, smiling serenely into the
questioning eyes, "and when her breakfast is ready I think she
will prove the truth of her words to you."
Away sped the mother, marveling at what she had heard, but with a
hymn of praise thrilling her heart; and, ten minutes later, as she
moved lightly over the stairs again, she heard a sweet, though
weak, voice saying:
"Listen, Mrs. Minturn!--just hear the birds sing!"
Phillip Stanley heard it also, as he sat in the hall, his head
bowed upon his hands, while great tears rolled over his cheeks and
dropped unheeded on the floor; and, as the feathered choristers
without sweetly chirped their tuneful matins, his grateful heart
responded with reverent joy--"Glory to God in the highest."
As Mrs. Seabrook entered Dorrie's room and saw the change in the
loved face--still very thin and white, it is true, but with a look
of peace on the brow, the eyes bright, the pale lips wreathed with
smiles--her composure well-nigh forsook her.
"Mamma, hear the birds!--and it isn't sunrise yet!" she said
again, as her mother approached her.
"Yes, dear; but I hear what is far sweeter music to me," the woman
replied, making a huge effort at self-control. "So you are hungry,
Dorrie!" she added, bending to kiss the lips uplifted to greet
her.
"Yes, really and truly hungry, and so happy; for my cold and the
pain are all gone. How kind of Mrs. Minturn to stay with me! Did
you sleep, mamma?"
"Like a kitten, dear. I think we have a great deal to thank Mrs.
Minturn for," said Mrs. Seabrook, bending a grateful look upon her
friend.
"That tastes good," Dorrie observed, as she partook, with evident
relish, of the delicately prepared egg, "and how nicely you do
toast bread! It looks almost like gold."
She was silent a moment, then resumed:
"Mamma, I wish you could have heard how beautifully Mrs. Minturn
talked to me, last night, every time I awoke; and repeated such
lovely things from the Bible. Of course, I have heard them before,
but, somehow, they sound different as she says them."
"And you begin to see that God never made or intended anyone to be
sick or suffer; that it is your right to be well and strong. You
will try to think of that often to-day, will you not, Dorothy?"
said Mrs. Minturn, as she lifted the small hand near her, to find
no fever but a gentle moisture in the palm, instead.
"Yes, and I've a better idea now of what Miss Katherine once said
about God--that He is Mind and perfect, and if we would let this
perfect Mind rule us we would be well. What was that you read me
from your little book about it feeding the body?" the girl
earnestly inquired.
"'Mind constantly feeds the body with supernal freshness and
fairness,'" [Footnote: "Science and Health," page 248.] quoted
Mrs. Minturn.
"Yes, that was it; if that is true, people should never be sick,"
said Dorothy, with a little sigh. "No, and they would not be if
they only knew how to let the divine Mind control them. You are
going to learn how, Dorothy, and so find yourself growing strong
and well with every day," said Mrs. Minturn, with a cheery smile.
"I wish I knew more about it," Dorothy wistfully observed. "Mamma,
why cannot we have a book like Mrs. Minturn's?"
"We will have, dear," was the prompt response. "Have you had
enough?"--as the girl gently put away the half-eaten slice of
toast.
"Yes, when I have had the milk." She drank it all and then lay
back, smiling contentedly. "It is so nice not to have any pain,"
she added; "it makes me love everybody. Ha! Uncle Phil"--for the
man was peering in at the door, unable to keep away a moment
longer--"come here and I will kiss you 'good-morning.'"
Mrs. Seabrook could bear no more and stole away with her tray to
hide the tears she could no longer restrain.
Mrs. Minturn followed her.
"I am going now," she said, "but I shall continue to work for
Dorrie all day, at intervals, and will run over now and then. All
is going well, so 'be not afraid, only believe.'"
"How can I ever express what is in my heart?" faltered Mrs.
Seabrook, tears raining over her face.
"You do not need to try, for I know it all, having once been
almost where Dorrie seemed to be last night," her friend returned.
"But do not make a marvel of it--just know that God's ways are
'divinely natural,' and that it is unnatural for anything but
health and harmony to exist in His universe. I have left my book,
and you can read to her if she expresses a wish to have you do
so."
There were very grateful, reverent hearts in the Hunt cottage that
day and during the days that followed, for Dorothy continued to
improve rapidly and steadily, and there was no return of the old
pain that had made life so wretched for her for years.
The fourth day after her long night-watch Mrs. Minturn sent a
roomy carriage--the back seat piled with down coverlids--"to take
them all for a drive."
Dr. Stanley, still governed largely by the "old thought," would
have vetoed such a suggestion under different circumstances, and
claimed that the child was still too weak to attempt anything of
the kind. But he felt that he, himself, was now under orders, and
meekly refrained from even expressing an opinion.
So they thankfully accepted their neighbor's kindness, and when he
saw Dorrie's delight in being once more out of doors, when he met
her dancing eyes and noted the faint color coming into her cheeks
and lips, and every day realized that she was getting stronger,
something within seemed to tell him that she would yet be well;
and--figuratively speaking--he reverently took off his materia
medica hat to Mrs. Minturn and secretly registered the vow of Ruth
to Naomi--"Thy people shall be my people and thy God my God."
One evening, after Dorothy was in bed and asleep, he came upon his
sister in the upper hall reading "Science and Health," and he
smiled, for since the night of their great trial she had literally
devoured the book every spare moment she could get.
"Have you written Will anything about our recent experiences?" he
inquired, as she glanced up at him.
"No; and I am not going to--just yet. Of course, I have written
him," she hastened to add, "but I have said nothing about Dorrie,
except that she is improving. I think"--thoughtfully--"I will make
'open confession' by another week, for I had a talk with Mrs.
Minturn, this afternoon, and she feels that it is hardly fair,
that she is not quite justified to go on with the treatment
without his consent."
"Suppose he should still object?" suggested Dr. Stanley.
"Oh, he will not--he cannot when he learns the truth and of the
great change in her; that the old pain is gone and she sleeps the
whole night through," earnestly returned Mrs. Seabrook, but
flushing hotly, for she had been secretly dreading to tell her
husband of the responsibility she had assumed.
"Well, when you are ready to write let me know, for I also shall
have something to say to him," said her brother, gravely.
A week later two voluminous letters, charged with matter of
serious import, went sailing over the ocean on their way to Paris,
where it was expected they would find Prof. Seabrook, who, having
turned his face home-ward, would spend the last week of August
there.
Each was characteristic of the writer; the mother's touchingly
pathetic in describing the "valley of the shadow" through which
they had passed, and glowing with love and gratitude to God in
view of the present hopeful and peaceful conditions; closing with
an earnest, even piteous, appeal for her husband's unqualified
consent to continue Christian Science treatment.
The young physician was no less earnest in laying the case before
his brother-in-law, but rather more logical and philosophical in
discussing it, as well as very positive in his deductions. In
conclusion he wrote:
"Perhaps you may be surprised to learn that I have been reading up
on this subject during the last few months; but, as I have also
been practicing medicine, at the same time, the mental conflict
has been something indescribable. I told myself, in my presumption
and egotism, that if there was healing power in Christian Science
I would look into it and utilize it in connection with my own
methods. The result has been a state of perpetual fizz--I know no
better word to describe it; and now, after our recent experience,
I find myself willing to sit humbly at the feet of higher
authority and learn of a better and more efficacious healing art
than I know of at present. For, I tell you in plain terms, Dorothy
was dying--she was past all human aid when that blessed woman
came, like an angel of peace, to us and in one night brought back
our darling from the border of the unseen world. She, with her
understanding of Christian Science, saved her. There can be no
doubt on that point, and the child is better than I have ever seen
her since her accident. There has been no return of pain, and you
can imagine what that means to us all. She sleeps well, and has a
healthy, normal appetite. But Mrs. Minturn is very conscientious--
says she cannot work in a divided household, and must have your
approval, if she is to go on with the good work. Now, Will, be a
man; put your prejudices away on some upper shelf--or, better
still, cast them to the winds; pocket your ecclesiastical and
intellectual pride, and give Dorrie a chance. I am convinced
'there is more in this philosophy than we have ever dreamed of,'
and I am going to know more about it. Cable just two words--'go
on'--if you are willing, and, at the rate she is going on now,
I'll wager a hat against a cane that you won't know your own
daughter when you arrive. Bring the cane, please! In the same
spirit of good fellowship as ever. "Affectionately yours, "PHIL."
There was a season of anxious, yet blessed, waiting after these
letters were dispatched. Blessed for Dorothy, who was gaining
every hour, and happy as the day was long; anxious for Mrs.
Seabrook, who could not quite divest herself of the fear of her
husband's disapproval, even though Mrs. Minturn was constantly
admonishing, "Let not your heart be troubled," and working to
demonstrate that there could be no opposition to Truth and that
the work, so well begun, could not be hindered by bigotry, pride
or self-will.
At last, one morning there came a cable message--just two words,
as Phillip Stanley had requested, but not what he had asked for.
"'Sail to-day,'" Mrs. Seabrook read aloud from the yellow slip,
and lost color as she looked anxiously into her brother's eyes and
questioned:
"What shall we do?"
"We will ask Mrs. Minturn," he gravely replied.
So the message was taken to her, and after a thoughtful silence
she turned with her serene smile to the waiting mother.
"We will go on," she said. "The question is ignored, and silence
gives consent until we have more definite instructions."
And go on they did, all working together, praying, reading,
trusting, while they waited for the white-winged vessel and the
traveler that were speeding towards them.
Three days later, a black bordered envelope was handed Katherine.
"It has no more power than you give it, dearie," observed her
mother, who saw that she did not at once open it.
The girl thanked her with a smile, and instantly broke the seal.
"It is from Jennie Wild, mamma," she said, as she turned to the
signature on the last page. Then she read aloud:
"DEAR MISS MINTURN: Auntie is gone, and it was all so sudden and
awful I cannot realize it even yet. She just went to sleep last
Thursday, in her chair, and never woke up. She was so dear--so
dear, and I loved her with all my heart, and it seems to take
everything out of the world for me, for her going leaves me alone,
with no one to love, or have a kindred feeling for me. I had
planned to do such great things for her when I should leave
school, so that she need not work every minute to support me, and
now I can do nothing and have been a burden to her all these
years. It is dreadful to be a 'stray waif,' your identity lost,
and your only friend swept out of the world without a moment's
warning.
"Well, I am young and strong--I can work, and sometime, perhaps, I
shall understand why I am here--what special niche I am to fill;
though at present nothing but a blank wall seems to loom up before
me. Of course, this means I am not going back to Hilton, for
auntie's annuity ceased when she went; the quarterly remittance
came the day before, so there was enough, and a little more, to
take care of her. I am going, tomorrow, to Jerome's, to see if I
can get a place in the store. I want to stay here because, now and
then, I can see you, the Seabrooks, and some of the other girls
who have been good to me. Please write to me, dear Miss Minturn. I
thought of you first in my trouble, for you always have something
so comforting to say when one is unhappy. Do you know anything
about Prof, and Mrs. Seabrook, or how Dorothy is? "Lovingly yours,
"JENNIE WILD."
There was a long silence, after Katherine finished reading this
epistle, during which both mother and daughter were absorbed in
thought. They were alone, for Miss Reynolds had left a few days
previous and Sadie had gone to Boston to do some shopping.
"Mamma," said Katherine, at length, breaking the silence, "there
is Grandma Minturn's legacy."
Mrs. Minturn lifted a bewildered look to her.
"Ah!" she said, the next moment, as she caught her meaning, "I
understand; you want to use it for Jennie."
"Yes; it is too bad for her education to be stopped. She is a
conscientious student, in spite of her pranks, and I cannot endure
the thought of her going into a dry-goods store as a clerk,"
Katherine replied.
"But the will states that the legacy is to be used for 'a European
tour, or a wedding trousseau, or--'"
"I know; but, mamma, I've had my European tour with you--such a
lovely one, too!" Katherine interposed; "while as for the
trousseau"--this with a faint smile--"that is a possible need so
far away in the dim distance as to be absolutely invisible at
present. So if you will let me use the money for Jennie I shall be
happy, and I am sure it will be 'bread' well 'cast upon the
waters.'"
"Dear heart!" replied her mother, in a voice that was not quite
steady, "it is a lovely thought; but we cannot decide so important
a matter without consulting your father. If he approves you have
my hearty sanction."'
John Minturn, big-hearted, whole-souled, and always ready to lend
a helping hand to a needy brother or sister, was deeply touched by
Katherine's generosity.
"Well, 'my girlie,' I guess you can do about as you have a mind to
with grandma's legacy," he said, when she unfolded her plan to
him. "To be sure she stated what it might be used for, but I think
she meant you to get what you most wanted with it. You've had the
trip abroad, as you say, and"--with a twinkle in his eyes that
brought the color to her cheeks--"when the wedding finery is
needed--which I hope won't be for a long time yet--I imagine it
will promptly be forthcoming."
"Thank you, papa. I wonder if any other girl manages to get her
own way as often as I do!" said the happy maiden, as she gave his
ear a playful tweak and supplemented it with a kiss on his lips.
"Well, Miss Philanthropy, for once I'll concede that it is an
irresistible 'way,'" he retorted, then added more seriously: "And
I think we will insist that Miss Wild shall return to Hilton as a
regular student and have no outside duties to handicap her in the
race, for the next three years."
"That was my own thought, too, papa; but"--with a look of
perplexity--"there are nearly three weeks before school opens, and
I am wondering what she will do with herself during that time."
"Oh, that is easily managed; tell her to board with some nice
family, and be getting her finery in order. Judging from what is
going on upstairs, she'll need a few stitches taken as well as
some other people whom I know," returned the man, with a chuckle;
for, unlike the majority of his kind, he took a deep interest in
the apparel of his wife and daughter, especially in the "pretty
nothings" which add so much to the tout ensemble.
But upon confiding her plans to Mrs. Seabrook, that lady at once
vetoed the boarding proposition.
"Tell Jennie to go directly to the seminary and remain with the
matron and maids, who will be there next Monday to begin to put
the house in order," she had said. "And--as she knows where
everything belongs--if she will oversee our rooms put to rights I
shall feel that I need not hurry back."
So, with a happy heart, Katherine wrote immediately to her
protegee a loving, tender letter, which also contained sympathetic
messages from all her other friends. Then, with great tact, she
unfolded her own plans and wishes regarding her future, and in
conclusion said:
"Jennie, dear, never again say that you are a 'stray waif,' for
nothing ever goes astray in God's universe. Your 'identity' is not
'lost,' for you are God's child, and that child can never be
deprived of her birthright, nor of any good thing necessary to her
happiness or well-being. Neither have you 'been deprived of your
only friend,' nor has she been swept beyond the focus of your
love, or you of hers. The bond that existed between you can never
be broken, for it was, and still is, the reflection of divine Love
that is omnipresent. I am looking forward to our reunion, and
shall think of you often as the days slip by.
"With dear love, KATHERINE MINTURN."
The response which Katherine received to the above letter drew
tears from her eyes, for Jennie's full heart overflowed most
touchingly, showing a depth of grateful appreciation that did her
much credit.
While still grieving for her "dear auntie," she could not restrain
her joy, in view of the great boon of going back to school, and
wrote of it:
"I did not think anything could make me so happy again, and I can
never tell you how I love you for it. I will improve every minute.
I will make you all proud of me. No one shall ever have cause to
call me 'Wild Jennie' again, and when I graduate and get to
teaching I shall pay you back every penny it has cost to fit me
for it."
One evening, after dinner, the Minturns went, with some friends
who were visiting them, to Katherine's favorite outlook, and, as
they were passing the Hunt cottage they saw Dr. Stanley on the
porch and invited him to join them. The sun was just setting as
they reached their point of observation, where the view,
illuminated by the vivid crimson and gold in the western sky, was
impressive and magnificent beyond description.
They lingered long, as if loath to leave the enchanting prospect;
but, as the softer shades of twilight began to steal gently like a
veil of gauze over the scene, they turned their faces homeward
once more.
As she was on the point of following, Katherine found Dr. Stanley
tarrying beside her.
"Will you wait a moment?" he inquired, in a low voice, which
impressed her as sounding not quite natural.
She paused with an inquiring look, and he led her back towards the
edge of the bluff.
"Miss Minturn, do you see a vessel far out at sea?" he asked.
"Yes, it is a--"
"Pardon me, please," he interposed; "it is a five-masted schooner,
with sails all set, is it not?"
"Why, yes," she began, turning to him in surprise, to find him
looking off at the vessel, his right eye covered with one hand.
For a moment she could not speak. Then her face grew luminous with
a great joy as she realized what it meant.
"Oh!" she breathed, softly.
"Yes, I can see," he said. "The sight has been slowly coming
during the last month, and I have dimly discerned things around
me. Yesterday Mrs. Minturn made a startling statement regarding
sight being 'spiritual perception'--that 'it is not dependent upon
the physical eye, the optic nerves, etc., but upon Mind, the all-
seeing God,' and I caught a glimpse of something I had not
comprehended before. To-day I found I could read my 'Science and
Health' clearly, with both eyes; but I have not spoken of it to
anyone until now--'twas you who first assured me that such a boon
could be conferred. Miss Minturn"--he removed his hat and bowed
his head reverently--"all honor to the 'Science of sciences' and
to her, the inspired messenger through whom it has been given to a
needy world."