“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 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.