"All right, I will; but, by Jove, Dorrie! what a profound little theologian you are getting to be!" laughingly returned the man as, with a caressing hand, he smoothed back the golden hair from her forehead. "What makes you bother your brain with such perplexing questions?" "I suppose one reason is because I've been sick so long and nobody does me any real good. Oh! I shouldn't have said that to you, when you try so hard," Dorrie interposed, flushing. "But I like to talk about such things, and you are very good to talk with me. Papa used to; but, lately, he doesn't seem to like to. You ought to hear Miss Minturn, though." "Miss Minturn!" repeated Phillip Stanley, with an inward start. "Yes. I don't believe you know who she is. She is a new student, and she is just lovely," said Dorothy, with animation. "Does she talk with you about these things?" inquired Dr. Stanley, and recalling what Katherine had told him regarding having been forbidden to advance her peculiar views while she was a student at Hilton. "I never heard her say anything about what we have been talking of to-day," Dorothy replied. "I'm going to ask her, though, what she thinks, sometime. But papa asked her some questions once in the Sunday class, and her ideas about God and the way people ought to live are beautiful. She has been to see me several times, and she always brings me a lovely flower of some kind--a rose or lily, and once the sweetest orchid; only one at a time, but always such a beauty. I love to look at it when she is gone, and it almost seems as if she had left part of herself behind." "That is just like her dainty ladyship," Phillip Stanley observed to himself, and Dorrie continued: "Sometimes others have been here when she has come, and other times I've felt too weak to talk; but--it is very strange!--I never have that tired feeling in my back when she is here, and she is always so bright and cheery I forget the pain and feel so happy and--and rested. Oh! must you go. Uncle Phillip?" she concluded, regretfully, as he arose and took up his hat. "Yes, dear, I've made you a long call, and now I really must get back to the office," he said, as he bent his lips to hers for his accustomed farewell. The girl twined her arms around his neck. "You are very good to me, Uncle Phillip, and I love you," she murmured, softly, "and when you go away I always count the hours 'til you come again." "Well! well! I begin to think I am a person of considerable importance," he rejoined, in a playful tone. "You 'begin to think,'" she retorted, roguishly; "haven't you ever thought it before? I'm not quite sure that you are as modest as you pretend to be. But, Uncle Phil--" "Yes?" "Will you look up those verses and tell me what you think, the next time you come?" "I promise you I will, Dorrie; and now au revoir!" He touched the bell to call the nurse, then waved her a last good- by and quietly left the room.