“An accident?” repeated the lady, inquiringly.  “Yes,” and he proceeded to give a brief account of the narrow escape in the lecture hall.  “I told Miss Minturn to go to her room,” he continued, “and I would come to her as soon as I had ascertained if all was well with Dorothy.  The child is all right; she was simply frightened and lost consciousness for a few moments.  But Miss Minturn was badly burned, on her hand and arm, and her beautiful dress is a wreck.  Mrs. Seabrook and I have been to her room; no one was there, nor can anyone give us a clew to her whereabouts,” and the gentleman looked really distressed as he concluded.

Miss Reynolds had been doing some practical thinking while he was talking, and now observed: 

“Well, Dr. Stanley, to relieve your anxiety, I will tell you that she is in my room, where she will remain all night.  But I have disobeyed her injunction to tell no one where she is.  Fortunately, I met her just as she was leaving the lecture hall, and she begged shelter with me.  I have but just left her.”

“But she must have attention—­her burns must be dressed,” said the physician, in a tone of professional authority.

“That will not be necessary, for she is asleep and resting quietly.”

“Asleep! impossible!” interposed the man, emphatically; “that is, unless she has taken a powerful opiate.”

“She has had nothing of the kind,” was the quiet answer.

“Then I repeat—­it would be impossible for her to sleep,” Dr. Stanley asserted, with a note of impatience in his tone.  “Why, only an hour has elapsed since the accident, and, with those burns, it would be many hours before she could get any rest or relief without an opiate.  I know,” he added, flushing, “she is a Christian Scientist, but I can’t quite swallow such a miracle as that.”

“Nevertheless, my friend, the dear girl, is sleeping peacefully—­ or was, ten minutes ago,” the lady smilingly returned.

“Did she put anything on those burns?”

“Nothing.”

“Do you believe she ‘demonstrated,’ as they express it, over the pain?”

“I know,” she softly replied.

“Ah!”—­with a start—­“are you—­”

Again she smiled as she interposed: 

“I must not say too much about that just now.  I will say this, however:  I have seen and learned enough to make me wish to know more, for Katherine Minturn is an earnest, honest exponent of her religion.  I am very fond of her—­she is one of the loveliest girls I have ever known.”

“I can heartily agree with you on that point,” replied Phillip Stanley, gravely.  “But I was hoping that I could be of service to her, for we owe her much for her wonderful presence of mind and practical common sense.  But for that Dorothy would have been badly burned and a great sufferer at this moment, instead of having gone to bed the happiest girl in the building and full of gratitude to Miss Minturn for giving her so much pleasure.  Will you say to her, if there is any way I can serve her, I shall be only too glad of the opportunity?”