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 into a quaint tarantelle that instantly dispelled the former spell of grandeur.     

       “An artist,” said some one standing near.     

       “Something more,” murmured Kemp, rising as he saw Ruth do so. He was about to offer her his arm when Mrs. Merrill, a gently-faced woman, stepped up to them, and laying her hand upon Ruth’s shoulder, said rather hurriedly,—     

       “I am sorry to trouble you, Doctor, but Mrs. Levice—do not be alarmed, Ruth dear—has become somewhat hysterical, and we cannot calm her; will you come this way, please, and no one need know she is in the study.”      

       “My family is making itself prominent to-night,” said Ruth, with a little catch in her voice, as they turned with Mrs. Merrill through the conservatory and so across the hall.     

       “I shall be here, Doctor, if you wish anything,” said Mrs. Merrill, standing without as he and Ruth entered and immediately shut the door after them.     

       “Stay there,” he said with quiet authority to Ruth, and she stood quite still where he left her. Mrs. Levice was seated in a large easy-chair with her back to the door; her husband had drawn her head to his bosom. There     

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