lancing
eyes of Dr. Kemp.

"Good-evening," she said, holding out her disengaged hand, which he
grasped and shook heartily.

"Is it Santa Filomena?" he asked, smiling into her eyes.

"No, only Ruth Levice, who is pleased to see you. Will you step into the
library? We are having a little home evening together."

"Thank you. Directly." He slipped out of his topcoat, and turning
quietly to her, said, "But before we go in, and I enact the odd number,
I wish to say a few words to you alone, please."

She bent a look of inquiry upon him, and meeting the gaze of his
compelling eyes, led him across the hall into the drawing-room. He
noticed how the soft light she held made her the only white spot in the
dark room, till, touching a tall silver lamp, she threw a rosy halo over
everything. That it was an exquisite, graceful apartment he felt at a
glance.

She placed her candle upon a tiny rococo table, and seated herself in
a quaint, low chair overtopped by two tiny ivory horns that spread like
hands of blessing above her head. The doctor declined to sit down, but
stood with one hand upon the fragile table and looked down at her.

"I am inclined to think, after all," he said slowly, "that you are in
truth the divine lady with the light. It is a pretty name and a pretty
fame,--that of Santa Filomena."

What had come over her eyelids that they refused to be raised?

"I think," he continued with a low laugh, "that I shall always call you
so, and have all rights reserved. May I?"

"I am afraid," she answered, raising her eyes, "that your poem would
be without rhyme or reason; a candle is too slight a thing for such an
assumption."

"But not a Rose Delano. I saw her to-day, and at least one sufferer
would turn to kiss your shadow. Do you know what a wonderfully beautiful
thing you have done? I came to-night to thank you; for any one who makes
good our ideals is a subject for thanks. Of course, the thing had no
personal bearing upon myself; but being an officious fellow, I thought
it proper to let you know that I know. That is my only excuse for
coming."

"Did you need an excuse?"

"That, or an invitation."

"Oh, I never thought of you--as--as--"

"As a man?"

How to answer this? Then finally she said,--

"As caring to waste an evening."

"Would it be a waste? There is an old adage that one might adapt, then,
'A wilful waste makes a woful want.' Want is a bad thing, so economy
would not be a half-bad idea. Shall