ut to start on a voyage to the Holy Land. In bidding a friend
good-by, he said: 'In that far land to which I am journeying, is there
not some relic, some sacred souvenir of the time beautiful, that I can
bring to you?' The friend mused awhile. 'Yes,' he made answer finally;
'there is a small thing, and one not difficult to obtain. I beg of
you to bring me a single rose from the plains of Sharon.' The pilgrim
promised, and departed. On his return he presented himself before his
friend. 'You have brought it?' he cried. 'Friend,' answered the pilgrim,
sadly, 'I have brought your rose; but, alas! After all this weary
travelling it is now but a poor, withered thing.' 'Give it me!'
exclaimed the friend, eagerly. The other did so. True, it was lifeless
and withered; not a vestige remained of its once fragrant glory. But as
the man held it tenderly in his hand, memory and love untold overcame
him, and he wept in ecstasy. And as his tears fell on the faded rose,
lo! The petals sprang up, flushed into life; an exquisite perfume
enveloped it,--it had revived in all its beauty. Sir, in the words of
the rabbi, 'In the light of toleration and love, we too have revived, we
too are looking up.'"

As the girl paused, Kemp slightly, almost reverentially, raised his hat.

"Miss Levice, that is exquisite," he said softly.

They had reached the old, poorer section of the city, and the doctor
stopped before a weather-beaten cottage.

"This is where Bob receives," he said, holding out a hand to Ruth; "in
all truth it cannot be called a home."

Ruth had a peculiar, inexplicable feeling of mutual understanding with
the doctor as she went in with him. She hardly realized that she had
been an impressionable witness of some of his dominant moods, and that
she herself had been led on to an unrestrained display of feeling.

Chapter VI

They walked directly into a bare, dark hallway. There was no one
stirring, and Kemp softly opened the door of one of several rooms
leading into the passage. Here a broad band of yellow sunlight fell
unrestrained athwart the waxen-like face of the sleeping boy. The rest
of the simple, poor-looking room was in shadow. The doctor noiselessly
closed the door behind them, and stepped to the bed, which was covered
with a heavy horse-blanket.

The boy on the bed even in sleep could not be accounted good-looking;
there was a heaviness of feature, a plentitude of freckles, a shock
of lack-lustre hair, that made po