“What rank heresy, Phil!” exclaimed his sister, with a laugh.

“I know it, and I have been in a very uncomfortable state of ’mental chemicalization’—­which is another pat phrase coined by that same remarkable woman—­over it for some time.”

“Dear me! what is the world coming to with its ever-changing creeds, doctrines and opinions?  One begins to feel that there is no really solid foundation to anything,” replied Mrs. Seabrook, with a troubled brow.  “Phillip!”—­with a start and a sudden blanching of her face—­“are you losing faith in your treatment of Dorothy?”

“I should have all faith if she were improving under it,” he returned, moodily.

“But she isn’t!  You are seeing that as well as I,” and the mother’s voice broke with sudden anguish.  “Oh, if you are losing faith I shall know there is no hope.”

“Don’t, Emelie,” pleaded her brother; “I really am hoping much from this change—­”

“Ah! that is equivalent to saying that you have exhausted your methods—­that our only hope now is in a salubrious atmosphere, etc.  It has been the same story, over and over,” she wailed.  “Every physician we have had—­his resources having failed—­has suggested ‘change of air and scene,’ and ’hoped that nature would do the rest.’  What do you doctors mean by that?  What is ’nature’?” she concluded, almost wildly.

“I see, Emelie, you feel that is a way of begging the question to secure release from a doubtful position,” the man returned, sadly.  “Well”—­with a sigh—­“I am forced to admit that none of our remedies are infallible.  But, it should not be so,” he went on, thoughtfully, “For years I have felt it when disease has baffled me; there should be a panacea—­a universal remedy, provided by an all-wise Creator for suffering humanity; but, ah! to find it!”

At those words Mrs. Seabrook started and looked up quickly.

“Have you those books—­that you mentioned to-day—­with you?” she inquired.

“Yes.”

“I want to read them.”

“Will would never forgive me for putting them into your hands.”

Mrs. Seabrook sat suddenly erect.

“I am not a child that I must have my reading selected for me,” she retorted, spiritedly.  “But, I can buy them.”

“Dear, I wouldn’t force you to that expense to gain your point,” said her brother, as he tenderly laid his arm around her shoulders.  “They are in my trunk, and you can have them whenever you wish.  But you are tired—­go to bed now, and I hope you will have a good night’s rest.”

“I am afraid I have seemed cross and out of sorts, Phil.  Perhaps I also am in a state of ‘mental chemicalization,’” she said, with a faint smile that ended in a sob; “but, indeed, my heart is very sore.  I shall read your books, and, if they appeal to me, I—­shall have Christian Science treatment for my child,” and there was a ring of something very like defiance in her voice which smote strangely on her brother’s ear; for Emelie Seabrook had ever been regarded as one of the gentlest and least self-willed of women.