"You would not, Miss Levice. Tell the story, please."

They were on level ground, and the doctor could disengage his attention
from the horses. He did not fail to note the emotion that lit up her
expressive face, and made her sweet voice tremble.

"It is the story of the Rose of Sharon. This is it briefly: A pilgrim was
about to start on a voyage to the Holy Land. In bidding a friend good-by,
he said: 'In that far land to which I am journeying, is there not some
relic, some sacred souvenir of the time beautiful, that I can bring to
you?' The friend mused awhile. 'Yes,' he made answer finally; 'there is a
small thing, and one not difficult to obtain. I beg of you to bring me a
single rose from the plains of Sharon.' The pilgrim promised, and
departed. On his return he presented himself before his friend. 'You have
brought it?' he cried. 'Friend,' answered the pilgrim, sadly, 'I have
brought your rose; but, alas! After all this weary travelling it is now but
a poor, withered thing.' 'Give it me!' exclaimed the friend, eagerly. The
other did so. True, it was lifeless and withered; not a vestige remained
of its once fragrant glory. But as the man held it tenderly in his hand,
memory and love untold overcame him, and he wept in ecstasy. And as his
tears fell on the faded rose, lo! The petals sprang up, flushed into life;
an exquisite perfume enveloped it, --it had revived in all its beauty.
Sir, in the words of the rabbi, 'In the light of toleration and love, we
too have revived, we too are looking up.'"

As the girl paused, Kemp slightly, almost reverentially, raised his hat.

"Miss Levice, that is exquisite," he said softly.