Other Things Being Equal | Page 9

a whisper, which hisses, but his voice was so hushed that it would not have disturbed the lightest sleeper.
"Put your hand, palm up, under hers. I am going to withdraw my hand and retire, as I do not wish to excite her; she will probably open her eyes in a few moments. Take her home as quietly as you can."
"You will call to-morrow?" whispered Levice.
He quietly assented.
"Now be deft." The transfer was quickly made, and nodding cheerfully, Dr. Kemp left the room.
Ruth came forward. Five minutes later Mrs. Levice opened her eyes.
"Why, what has happened?" she asked languidly.
"You fell asleep, Esther," replied her husband, gently.
"Yes, I know; but why is Ruth in that gown? Oh--ye-es!" Consciousness was returning to her. "And who was that handsome man who was here?"
"A friend of Ruth."
"He is very strong," she observed pensively. She lay back in her chair for a few minutes as if dreaming. Suddenly she started up.
"What thoughtless people we are! Let us go back to the drawing-room, or they will think something dreadful has happened."
"No, Mamma; I do not feel at all like going back. Stay here with Father while I get our wraps."
Before Mrs. Levice could demur, Ruth had left the room. As she turned in the direction of the stairs, she was rather startled by a hand laid upon her shoulder.
"Oh, you, Louis! I am going for our wraps."
"Here they are. How is my aunt?"
"She is quite herself again. Thanks for the wraps. Will you call up the carriage, Louis? We shall go immediately, but do not think of coming yourself."
"Nonsense! Tell your mother you have made your adieux to Mrs. Merrill, --she understands; the carriage is waiting."
A few minutes later the Levices and Louis Arnold quietly stole away. Mrs. Levice has had an attack of hysteria. "Nothing at all," the world said, and dismissed it as carelessly as most of the quiet turning-points in a life-history are dismissed.
Chapter III
The Levices' house stood well back upon its grounds, almost with an air of reserve in comparison with the rows of stately, bay-windowed houses that faced it and hedged it in on both sides. But the broad, sweeping lawns, the confusion of exquisite roses and heliotropes, the open path to the veranda, whereon stood an hospitable garden settee and chair, the long French windows open this summer's morning to sun and air, told an inviting tale.
As Dr. Kemp ascended the few steps leading to the front door, he looked around approvingly.
"Not a bad berth for the grave little bookworm," he mused as he rang the bell.
It was immediately answered by the "grave little bookworm" in person.
"I've been on the lookout for you for the past hour," he explained, leading him into the library and turning the key of the door as they entered.
It was a cosey room, not small or low, as the word would suggest, but large and airy; the cosiness was supplied by comfortable easy-chairs, a lounge or two, a woman's low rocker, an open piano, a few soft engravings on the walls, and books in cases, books on tables, books on stands, books everywhere. Two long lace-draped windows let in a flood of searching sunlight that brought to light not an atom of dust in the remotest corner. It is the prerogative of every respectable Jewess to keep her house as clean as if at any moment a search-warrant for dirt might be served upon her.
"Will you not be seated?" asked Levice, looking up at Kemp as the latter stood drawing off his gloves.
"Is your wife coming down here?"
"No; she is in her room yet."
"Then let us go up immediately. I am not at leisure."
"I know. Still I wish to ask you to treat whatever ailments you may find as lightly as possible in her presence; she has never known anxiety or worry of any kind. It will be necessary to tell only me, and every precaution will be taken."
Here was a second one of this family of three wishing to take the brunt of the trouble on his shoulders, and the third had been bearing it secretly for some time. Probably a very united family, loving and unselfish doubtless, but the doctor had to stifle an amused smile in the face of the old gentleman's dignified appeal.
"Still she is not a child, I suppose; she knows of the nature of my visit?" He moved toward the door.
"Ruth--my daughter, you know--was about to tell her as I left the room."
"Then we will go up directly."
Levice preceded him up the broad staircase. As they reached the landing, he turned to the doctor.
"Pardon my care, but I must make sure that Ruth has told her. Just step into the sitting-room a second," and the precautious husband went forward to his wife's bedroom, leaving the door open.
Standing there in the