nner of man is another--with women."

"That is worth considering--or adding to the curriculum," observed Kemp,
turning his steady, quiet gaze upon Arnold.

Ruth noticed that the two men had taken the same position,--vis--vis to
each other in their respective easy-chairs, their heads thrown back upon
the cushions, their arms resting on the chair-arms. Something in Louis's
veiled eyes caused her to interpose.

"Will you play, Louis?" she asked.

"Not to-night, ma cousine," he replied, glancing at her from lowered
lids.

"It is not optional with you to-night, Louis," she insisted playfully,
rising; "we--desire you to play."

"Or be punished for treason? Has your Majesty any other behest?"

"No; I shall even turn the leaves for you."

"The leaves of what,--memory? I'll play by rote."

He strolled over to the piano and sat down. He struck a few random
chords, some soft, some florid, some harsh, some melting; he strung them
together and then glided into a dreamy, melodious rhythm, that faded
into a bird-like hallelujah,--swelling now into grandeur, then fainting
into sobs, then rushing into an allegro so brilliantly bewildering that
when the closing chords came like the pealing tones of an organ, Ruth
drew a long sigh with the last lingering vibrations.

"What is that?" asked Levice, looking curiously at his nephew, who,
turning on his music-chair, took up his cigar again.

"That," he replied, flecking an ash from his coat lapel, "has no name
that I know of; some people call it 'The Soul.'"

A pained sensation shot through Ruth at his words, for he had plainly
been improvising, and he must have felt what he had played.

"Here, Ruth, sing this," he continued, turning round and picking up a
sheet of music.

"What?" she asked without moving.

"'The bugle;' I like it."

Kemp looked at her expectantly. He said he had not known she sang; but
since she did, he was sure her voice was contralto.

"Why?" she asked.

"Because your face is contralto."

She turned from his eyes as if they hurt her, and walked over to Louis's
side.

It could hardly be called singing. Louis had often said that her voice
needed merely to be set to rhythmic time to be music; in pursuance of
which idea he would put into her hand some poem that touched his
fancy, tell her to read it, and as she read, he would adapt to it
an accompaniment according to the meaning and measure of the
lines,--grandly solemn, daintily tripping, or wildly in