windowed houses
that faced it and hedged it in on both sides. But the broad, sweeping
lawns, the confusion of exquisite roses and heliotropes, the open path
to the veranda, whereon stood an hospitable garden settee and chair, the
long French windows open this summer's morning to sun and air, told an
inviting tale.

As Dr. Kemp ascended the few steps leading to the front door, he looked
around approvingly.

"Not a bad berth for the grave little bookworm," he mused as he rang the
bell.

It was immediately answered by the "grave little bookworm" in person.

"I've been on the lookout for you for the past hour," he explained,
leading him into the library and turning the key of the door as they
entered.

It was a cosey room, not small or low, as the word would suggest, but
large and airy; the cosiness was supplied by comfortable easy-chairs,
a lounge or two, a woman's low rocker, an open piano, a few soft
engravings on the walls, and books in cases, books on tables, books on
stands, books everywhere. Two long lace-draped windows let in a flood
of searching sunlight that brought to light not an atom of dust in the
remotest corner. It is the prerogative of every respectable Jewess to
keep her house as clean as if at any moment a search-warrant for dirt
might be served upon her.

"Will you not be seated?" asked Levice, looking up at Kemp as the latter
stood drawing off his gloves.

"Is your wife coming down here?"

"No; she is in her room yet."

"Then let us go up immediately. I am not at leisure."

"I know. Still I wish to ask you to treat whatever ailments you may find
as lightly as possible in her presence; she has never known anxiety
or worry of any kind. It will be necessary to tell only me, and every
precaution will be taken."

Here was a second one of this family of three wishing to take the brunt
of the trouble on his shoulders, and the third had been bearing it
secretly for some time. Probably a very united family, loving and
unselfish doubtless, but the doctor had to stifle an amused smile in the
face of the old gentleman's dignified appeal.

"Still she is not a child, I suppose; she knows of the nature of my
visit?" He moved toward the door.

"Ruth--my daughter, you know--was about to tell her as I left the room."

"Then we will go up directly."

Levice preceded him up the broad staircase. As they reached the landing,
he turned to the doctor.

"Pardon my care, but I must make sure that Ruth has t