of the Queen of Sheba’s progenitors was vague.
“My father, yes,” she repeated, smiling at his perplexity. “Our name is not very common; I am Jules Levice’s daughter.”
He was about to exclaim “NO!” The kinship seemed ridiculous in the face of this lovely girl and the remembered picture of the little plain-faced Jew. What he did say was,—
“Mr. Levice is an esteemed friend of mine. He is present, is he not?”
“Yes. Have you met my mother yet?”
The mother would probably unravel the mysterious origin of this 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
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