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