Other Things Being Equal | Page 8

looked bewildered; his knowledge 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 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 was no one else in the room, and for a second not a sound, till

Mrs. Levice began to sob in a frightened manner.
"It's nothing at all, Jules," she cried, trying to laugh and failing
lamentably; "I--I'm only silly."
"There, dear, don't talk." Levice's face was white as he soothingly
stroked her hair.
"Oh!"
The doctor stepped in front of them, and laying both hands upon her
shoulders, motioned Levice aside.
"Hush! Not a word!"
At the sound of