o school with you," panted Levice, as Dr.
Kemp entered; "even his eyes have been educated to express the same
feeling; except for a little--"

"There, there," quieted Kemp; "don't exhaust yourself. Miss Levice, that
fan, please. A little higher? How's that?"

"Do not go, Doctor," he said feebly; "I have something to say, to do,
and you--I want you--give me something--I must say it now. Esther, where
are you?"

"Here, love."

"Mr. Levice, you must not talk now," put in Kemp, authoritatively;
"whatever you have to say will last till morning."

"And I?"

"And you. Now go to sleep."

Mrs. Levice followed him to the door.

"You spoke just now of a nurse," she said through her pale lips; "I
shall not want one: I alone can nurse him."

"There is much required; I doubt if you are strong enough."

"I am strong."

He clasped her hand in assent; he could not deny her.

"I shall come in and stay with you to-night," he said simply.

"You. Why should you?"

"Because I too love him."

Her mouth trembled and the lines of her face quivered, but she drew her
hand quickly over it.

Kemp gave one sharp glance over to the bed; Ruth had laid her head
beside her father's and held his hand. In such a house, in every Jewish
house, one finds the best nurses in the family.

Chapter XXV

Shafts of pale sunlight darted into the room and rested on Mr. Levice's
hair, covering it with a silver glory,--they trailed along the silken
coverlet, but stopped there; one little beam strayed slowly, and almost
as if with intention, toward Arnold, seated near the foot of the bed.
Ruth, lovely in her pallor, sat near him; Mrs. Levice, on the other
side of the bed, leaned back in her chair placed close to her husband's
pillow; more remote, though inadvertently so, sat Dr. Kemp. It was by
Mr. Levice's desire that these four had assembled here.

He was sitting up, supported by many pillows; his face was hollow and
colorless; his hands lay listlessly upon the counterpane. No one touches
him; bathed in sunlight, as he was, the others seemed in shadow. When he
spoke, his voice was almost a whisper, but it was distinctly audible
to the four intent listeners; only the clock seemed to accompany his
staccato speech, running a race, as it were, with his failing strength.

"It is a beautiful world," he said dreamily, "a very beautiful world;"
the sunbeams kissed his pale hands as if thanking him; no one stirred,
letting the old man take his ti