s
beautiful face and this strange, sweet voice, whose subdued tones held
an uncommon charm.

"No; but your father is diplomat enough to manage that before the
evening is over. So you know our little scheme. Pardon the 'shop' which
I have of a necessity brought with me this evening, but have you seen
any signs of illness in your mother?"

"No; I have been very blind and selfish," she replied, somewhat
bitterly, "for every one but me seems to have seen that something was
wrong. She has been very anxious to give me pleasure, and I fear
has been burning the candle at both ends for my light. I wish I had
known--probably it lay just within my hand to prevent this, instead of
leading her on by my often expressed delight. What I wish to ask you
is that if you find anything serious, you will tell me, and allay my
father's fears as much as possible. Please do this for me. My father is
not young; and I, I think, am trustworthy."

She had spoken rapidly, but with convincing sincerity, looking her
companion full in the face.

The doctor quietly scrutinized the earnest young face before he
answered. Then he slightly bowed in acquiescence.

"That is a pact," he said lightly; "but in all probability your father's
fears are exaggerated."

"'Where love is great, the smallest doubts are fears,'" she quoted,
softly flushing. The doctor had a singular impersonal habit of keeping
his eyes intently bent upon the person with whom he conversed, that made
his companion feel that they two were exclusively alone,--a sensation
that was slightly bewildering upon first acquaintance. By and by one
understood that it was merely his air of interest that evoked the
feeling, and so gradually got used to it as to one of his features.

"That is so," he replied cheerily; "and--I see some one is about to
play. Mrs. Merrill told me we should have some music."

"It is Louis, I think; I know his touch."

"Your cousin? He plays?"

Ruth looked at him in questioning wonder. Truth to say, the doctor could
not but betray his surprise at the idea of the cold-looking Arnold
in the light of a musician; his doubts took instant flight after the
opening chords. Rubenstein's Melody in F, played by a master-hand, is
one long sound of divine ecstasy thrilling the listener to exquisite
rapture. Played by Louis Arnold, what the composer had conceived in
his soul was magnificently interpreted. As he finished, there was not a
murmur; and the next minute he had dashed