“I am sure we will,” cordially assented
Katherine, “and”—with a merry
twinkle in her eyes—“if you do not
broach it, you may confidently rely upon my discretion.”
“I own up,” good-naturedly returned her
chum. “I did broach it this time; but”—flushing
slightly—“something had to be said
to get it out of the way, don’t you know?
And may I—would you like me to call you
Katherine?”
“With all my heart, Sadie.”
The two girls smiled into each other’s eyes;
the last vestige of formality was swept away, and
the atmosphere was clear.
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.”
