etter for me to
walk in alone, as of my own accord."

"Ah, yes!" he said, and told her the address. She ran lightly up the
steps, and as he turned her key in the door for her, she raised a pair
of starry eyes to his.

"Dr. Kemp," she said, "I have had an exceptionally lovely evening. I
shall not soon forget it."

"Nor I," he returned, raising his hat; holding it in his hand, he gently
raised her gloved hand to his lips. Herbert Kemp was a gentleman of the
old school in his manner of showing reverence to women.

"My brave young friend!" he said; and the next minute his firm footfall
was crunching the gravel of the walk. Neither of them had remembered
that he was to have come in with her. She waited till the gate clicked
behind him, and then softly closed the heavy door.

"My brave young friend!" The words mounted like wine to her head. She
forgot her surroundings and stood in a sweet dream in the hall, slowly
unbuttoning her glove. She must have remained in this attitude for five
minutes, when, raising her eyes, still shadowy with thought, she saw her
cousin before her down the hall, his arm resting on the newel-post.

"Louis!" she cried in surprise; and without considering, she hurried to
him, threw her arm around his neck, and kissed him on the cheek. Arnold,
taken by storm, stepped slightly back.

"When did you get home?" she asked, the pale rose-flush that mantled her
cheeks making her face exquisite.

"A half an hour ago."

She looked at him quickly.

"Are you tired, Louis?" she inquired gently. "You are somewhat pale, and
you speak in that way."

"Did you enjoy the play?" he asked quietly, passing by her remarks.

"The play!" she echoed, and then a quick burning blush suffused
her face. The epilogue had wholly obliterated the play from her
recollection.

"Oh, of course," she responded, turning from the rather sardonic smile
of his lips and seating herself on the stairs; "do you want to hear
about it now?"

"Why not?"

"Well," she began, laying her gloves in her lap and snuggling her chin
in the palms of her hands, "shall I tell you how I felt about it? In
the first place, I was not ashamed of Shylock; if his vengeance was
distorted, the cause distorted it. But, oh, Louis, the misery of that
poor old man! After all, his punishment was as fiendish as his guilt.
Booth was great. I wish you could have seen the play of his wonderful
eyebrow and the eloquence of his fine hand. Poor old, lonely Shylock