Kildares of Storm

It was an epoch-making afternoon for Jacqueline, and not the least part of the enchantment was her first experience of automobiling. The wheezing, coughing little equipage known to Professor Thorpe's friends as the Ark had induced in her the belief that automobiles were a very poor substitute for horses, and she scorned to enter it. But this powerful, silent car of Farwell's, capable of such incredible speed and yet controlled by a lever or a button quite as easily as she herself could have handled a horse—it gave her the feeling that she was riding a tamed whirlwind.

"Nice car, isn't it? I like it best of all Farwell's machines. It is to be mine while I'm here," said Channing.

"Do you mean to say Mr. Farwell owns more than one of them?" asked Jacqueline, awed. "How in the world did he ever get to be so rich? He's an artist, isn't he? And I thought artists were never rich."

"It depends upon the kind of art. Farwell gives the people what they want, which always pays."

"He must sell a lot of pictures to buy a machine like this!"

"Pictures!" He turned and stared at her. "Why, I don't believe you know who he is!" He chuckled. "What a blow for Morty! I must tell him that there's actually a girl in America who doesn't recognise him on sight. He is the Farwell—Mortimer Farwell himself, my dear."

Jacqueline looked blank.

"What, never even heard of him? Mortimer Farwell is—or was—the most popular matinée idol on the stage. He's resting on his laurels at present, but I don't think he will rest long. Between you and me, he misses the footlights."

"On the stage! You mean he's an actor? And I'm going to his house! What will Jemmy say when she hears of this?" Jacqueline looked rather alarmed.

Channing said, much amused, "Actors don't bite, my dear child. Farwell's a gentleman. And I am here to protect you."

She still felt uneasy. Her experience of actors had been confined to the barn-stormers who occasionally drifted into the nearest town and out again as speedily as possible. Though the theatres of Frankfort and Lexington were only a few hours away, they belonged to the life Mrs. Kildare shunned.

"At least he's married," murmured Jacqueline with some relief. "Is she on the stage, too? Will I like her?"

"His wife? Oh, Mrs. Farwell never comes here, you know. It's a bachelor place. That's why he calls it Holiday Hill."

"Dear me!" she said, puzzled. "Don't they like each other, then?"

"Very much, I believe. It's an extremely comfortable arrangement. She makes her engagements, he makes his; all very friendly and no questions asked. Quite the ideal match."

Jacqueline looked doubtful. "But what about the children?"

"Oh, there aren't any children, of course. Fancy May Farwell with children!"

"But if people are going to live that way, what is the use of getting married?"

"There is none," said Channing, earnestly. "Believe me, there is none. Many have made that discovery. I mean to profit by their example."

"You mean never to marry at all?" asked Jacqueline, and sighed a little; so far and fast does maiden fancy roam once it slips the leash.

Channing was not unaware of that sigh, and not displeased by it. But what he did fail to notice was the smile that immediately succeeded it; a demure and secret smile which said more plainly than words, "We shall see, Mr. Percival Channing! We shall see!"

The word "forbidden" had always upon young Jacqueline an opposite effect to that intended.

Hours passed as if on wings. Farwell, so they were informed by a correct man-servant at the door, was away for the afternoon and evening, so that they had the house to themselves. Jacqueline went from room to beautiful room of the bachelor establishment, lost in admiration of the ivory-paneled walls, the charming pictures, the delicate French furniture and brocade hangings of the bedrooms, each with a marble bath attached that was luxurious enough for a Roman emperor.

"To think of just a man having things like this!" she marveled.

It was her first glimpse of luxury, a thing unknown to the rough and simple comfort of Storm. Vaguely it oppressed her. She felt shy for the first time in her life, self-conscious. It seemed to her that her gestures were awkward, her voice too big and crude. Channing detected the chagrin in her expressive face, and had the tact to lure her into the music room, where she forgot herself entirely.

Music was far more of a passion with the girl than Kate Kildare was capable of realizing. She had done what she could to cultivate in both her daughters a taste that had been in her day part of the education of every lady. She herself enjoyed music, and she intended to supplement their singing and piano lessons with occasioned visits to Cincinnati to hear grand opera. There was an excellent musical library at Storm, and the best records to be had for the graphophone were sent to her regularly. She felt that from a musical standpoint she was doing her full duty by her children.

Of the physical reaction that music produces in some finely strung temperaments, Kate knew nothing at all. Jacqueline's was a nature similar to hers, but far less balanced, and lacking as yet an outlet for its abounding energy. There were possibilities in her which would have startled the mother, had she guessed them.

Percival Channing, with his carefully developed flair for character study, guessed them from the first. Susceptibility to musical intoxication was a thing which he understood, a thing to which he himself was more or less subject. He knew the danger and the value of it. Without some such susceptibility, he believed, artistic accomplishment was not possible. He had been thrown much into the company of singers, players, painters, people whose profession was the charming of a capricious public, and he saw in the girl many of the requisites for success—not only the voice, so far unspoiled by bad training, but the sensitiveness, the beauty, even the splendid physical strength necessary to that most strenuous of all professions, operatic singing. It flattered his vanity to realize that he was the discoverer of a possible celebrity.

Song after song they tried together, Channing playing the accompaniments. He played well, and made the most of rather faulty music. Jacqueline thought the songs wonderful. It was her introduction to the sensuous, discordant harmonies of Strauss and de Bussy, of whom Channing was an ardent disciple. They puzzled and stirred her oddly.

Now and then as she leaned over Channing's shoulder to interpret the difficult manuscript score, he glanced up to meet her eyes, no longer merry and mischievous as was their wont, but curiously somber, languid. He saw that she was giving herself to music as an opium eater surrenders to the drug he loves, indifferent to her surroundings, unaware of them, perhaps; but not unaware of him. It was to him she sang, however unconsciously. Jacqueline had found the audience she needed, and she was singing as she had never sung in her life before.

It was with some difficulty that Channing kept his attention on the score.

Unnoticed, the long August twilight had come into the room, and a servant shut it out unobtrusively with silken curtains. Later he returned and announced dinner. Jacqueline's eyes opened suddenly as if from sleep.

"What did he say?" she asked.

The servant cleared his throat and repeated, "Dinner is served."

"Dinner?" Jacqueline started. "You mean supper? Why, it's dark, and the candles are lighted! Mr. Channing, what time is it? Goodness, I must hurry! Mother'll be home by this time."

"Please, no," he protested. "I took the liberty of telling the servants you would dine with me to-night. Why not, Miss Jacqueline? Do take pity on my loneliness. Farwell does not return till to-morrow."

She hesitated, longingly. "It would be fun."

"Of course it would. And perfectly harmless. Farwell's servants are discreet. He has trained them. Nobody need know."

But it was not any doubts of propriety that made her hesitate. For Jacqueline, conventions did not exist. Moreover, the breaking of bread seemed too natural and simple a thing to take with any seriousness. It was her democratic custom to present herself for a meal at any table near which the meal hour happened to find her. Farmers, tenants, even negroes in the field, had on occasion proudly shared their bacon and corn-pone with the Madam's youngest daughter.

"It's Mother," she explained, "She has just come home, and I haven't seen her for three days. If I am not there to pet her and make a fuss over her, she will miss me, and worry.—No," she corrected herself, "Mother never worries, but she'll wonder. I must go."

"There's to be a rum cake," murmured Channing, craftily. "And—do you like champagne?"

Jacqueline's eyes sparkled. "I've never tasted it, or rum cake either. I would like to—" her eyes wandered wistfully toward the dining-room. "Suppose I telephone and ask Mother whether she'd mind?"

"If you do that, she's sure to mind. Mothers always do. Besides, think of the firm sister. Do you suppose she'll consent to your dining in a strange actor's house? Never!"

Jacqueline tossed her head. "It's none of Jemmy's business. She's only two years older than I am.—Besides, I needn't tell her where I've been, need I?"

Channing had accomplished his purpose.

The girl's hunger for the things that were to him matters of everyday, touched him. She stood a moment in the door of the dining-room, gazing in delight at the long carven oak table, with Florentine candelabra at each end and a strip of filet across the center, at either side of which their plates were laid, separated by a vase of white alabaster, holding a few hothouse roses, crimson as blood. Untrained as her eyes were, they appreciated the æsthetic at sight.

"It is all so different," she said with a little sigh. "The very food is different, and beautiful."

"Farwell does himself very well at what he calls his little backwoods farmhouse. But why the sigh?"

"Because—" she looked away shyly, then looked at him again. "I was thinking that I don't belong in this sort of place, and—and you do."

"Nonsense!" He leaned across the table, and laid his hand on hers. "You belong wherever things are most beautiful, my dear. As for environment, you can make it what you choose," he said. "Don't you realize that? Whatever you choose, Jacqueline."

"Can I?" Her eyes met his in a long gaze. The languor of the music was still in them, but he saw another expression growing there, a grave and womanly sweetness. "I wonder—" The hand under his turned so that the warm fingers clasped his.

At that moment the discreet servant entered with a small bottle wrapped in a napkin. Channing withdrew his hand abruptly.

"Of course you can!" he smiled and lifted a glass shaped like a lily, filled with sparkling gold. "To your future career!" he said, and drank.

She echoed the toast, "To my future career."

Perhaps the career she had in mind was not entirely an operatic one, however.

Very shortly afterwards, he took her home. She went rather reluctantly, glancing in at the music-room with a wistful sigh. But he was adamant. He had no idea of arousing maternal watchfulness.

"I wish we had time for a little more music," she said.

"We shall have a great deal more music before we are done with each other, little girl," he assured her.

She answered naïvely, "But it will never be quite like this again. The next time I come, Mr. Farwell will probably be here."

Channing laughed. "I can promise you he won't! Morty's an awfully good sort, and not keen on music. We shall have his music-room to ourselves whenever we like."

She nestled against him in the machine confidingly, feeling the reaction of the day's excitement, and perhaps of the champagne, to which Basil Kildare's daughter had taken very kindly.

"I feel so tired all of a sudden," she murmured. "Do you mind if I put my head on your shoulder?"

Channing did not mind. "Make yourself comfortable!"

She lay there, gazing up happily at the stars that were beginning to show in the wide curve of the sky, and singing under her breath,

"I wish," she said presently, half to herself, "that this day could just have gone on forever."

Channing did not answer. He was beginning to congratulate himself on the self-control that kept his hands to the steering-wheel. Jacqueline, drowsy and sweet as a tired child, was rather hard to resist; but Channing had certain inconvenient ideas as to the duties of a host and a gentleman, ideas that were the sole remnant of a careful New England upbringing.

She lapsed into contented silence, and they did not speak again until they reached the foot of Storm hill. There Channing stopped his car.

"Wake up, and run along home now, little girl," he said, his voice more tender than he meant it to be.

She roused herself and smiled at him, a wonderful, wide smile. She was very grateful to this new friend of hers for his sympathy, his understanding, grateful for the glimpse he had given her of a world hitherto unguessed, grateful for the look in his eyes at that moment.

"I do wish," she said, holding out both hands, "that I knew how to—to thank you!"

Channing's admirable self-control slipped a cog. He took the hands. "I can show you how to thank me," he said, quite hoarsely for a mere collector of impressions.

She jerked her hands away, dimpling, and jumped out of the car. The imminent prospect of being kissed had not shocked her—in fact, she was rather surprised that she had not been kissed before. But she had her instincts of the sex that flees. So she turned and ran, neither very fast nor very far—

"Dear me!" she whispered presently against Channing's lips, "what would old Philip say to this? He told me I couldn't be too careful with strange men. I'm not being very careful, am I?"

"Damn Philip! Kiss me again," said the author.

Breathless and radiant, she ran her blithe way up the dark hill road. She had been hungry for other things than music and sympathy and friendship, this youngest of the wild Kildares of Storm.

Her mother was standing in the door, Philip Benoix beside her.

"There you are, Jacky girl! I was just about to send Philip out to find you, gadabout. Have you had any supper?"

"Oh, yes, Mummy darling, I took some with me." It was the first lie of Jacqueline's life, and the ease with which it came surprised her. She ran into her mother's arms and hugged her close. "Oh, Mummy, I am so happy, happy!"

"There, there," murmured Kate, moved. "Glad to have me home again, my precious? But you needn't crack my ribs in your belated ardor. Where have you been so late?"

"Oh, just roaming around," she said vaguely. "The twilight was so lovely."

"Little dreamer!" Sighing, she knew not why, Kate drew the glowing face to her own.

But for once Jacqueline of the eager lips turned her cheek, so that her mother's kiss should not disturb the memory of certain others.

If Mrs. Kildare's eyes had been of their usual observant keenness in those days, she could not have failed to notice the change in Jacqueline; a new loveliness, a sudden bursting into bloom of the womanhood that had lain hidden in the bud. Her eyes took on a starry softness quite different from their usual glint of mischief, the rich blood in her cheeks came and went with her thoughts, her very hair had a sort of sheen upon it like the luster on the wings of pigeons in the spring. Blossom time, that comes once in life to every woman, with its perilous short gift of the power that moves the world, had come in turn to Jacqueline. It is a moment when a girl most needs her mother; but Kate's thoughts were elsewhere.

People were saying among themselves, "The Madam's beginning to show her age." But they could not have said in just what way she showed it. There was no diminution of her tireless energy; she rode her spirited horses with the same supple ease; no pallor showed in her warm cheeks; no lines in the broad space between her brows; no gray in the glinting chestnut of her hair, as abundant and as splendidly vital as Jacqueline's own. The change was as subtle as the change in Jacqueline; yet many people spoke of it.

Sometimes on the road she passed acquaintances without seeing them; or in the midst of some important conversation, they became aware that she was listening only with her eyes. She spent much time under the juniper tree, sitting idle, her gaze fixed on the shadow over the distant penitentiary, which it had for years avoided. When that shadow hung over Jacques Benoix, her thoughts had at least known where to seek him, as the Moslem when he prays turns toward the east. Now her thoughts had no Mecca. They sought him homeless throughout the world.

Unused to introspection as she was, Kate had made a discovery about herself. Of the two types of strong-hearted women created, the mother-type and the lover-type, she would have said that she belonged indubitably to the former; that hers was a life led chiefly for and in her children. Now she knew that it was not so. Her work for them, her absorption in their welfare, their property and education and character—what were these but so much makeshift to fill the empty years until Jacques came to her?

She had been so sure, so passionately sure, that he would come to her. Vitality, beauty, youth, she had deliberately hoarded for him, like precious unguents to be poured out at his feet. What was she for but to atone to him for the bitterness that life had brought him, through her fault? Since he rejected her, of what use was she in the world?

A strange restlessness came over her, a feeling of waste, of unfulfilment. She was so intensely alive, so eager, so sentient—surely there must be some purpose for her yet in life; not as the mistress of Storm, not as the mother of Basil Kildare's daughters, but as herself, Kate, the woman. She tried to explain this restlessness to Philip, always her confidant, content for the present with any rôle that brought him in contact with her; faithfully, as his father had hidden him, biding his time.

"What am I for?" was her cry. "What is the use of me, Philip?"

For weeks she did not give up hope of Jacques' relenting, but it was a hope in which Philip did not encourage her. He recognized his father's decision as final, even as wise and just; though his heart was torn between pity and admiration for a man who was capable of such sacrifice. And he understood his dear lady better, far better, than she understood herself.

But if this new unrest of hers kindled certain hopes which he had never before dared to entertain, love taught him to offer her nothing now but comfort, the comfort of devoted friendship. It was a thing she sorely needed, for Kate had lost, and knew it, not only the man she loved, but her daughter Jemima.

The relations between them were evident to all observers: on the girl's part a scrupulous, cold courtesy; on the mother's, wistful and tentative efforts to please that would have touched any heart less youthfully hard than Jemima's. Kate's was a nature too great to harbor resentment. Grief had obliterated, almost as soon as it was born, her anger at the girl's treachery in writing to Benoix; if indeed anything so open and frank as Jemima's act could be called treachery.

The doctor had hardly left after Kate's unprecedented fainting attack, when the girl confessed: "Mother, I think you ought to know that I myself wrote to Dr. Benoix advising him not to come to this house. I told him that if he did so I should leave you."

"Is that all you told him?" asked Kate. "Did you tell him the terms of your father's will?"

The girl flushed. "Certainly not, Mother. That would not have been quite fair, when you had promised to make good any loss that came to Jacqueline and me through your marriage. I think," she said, "that you may always count upon me to be quite fair."

Kate nodded, wearily. It was true, Jemima was always fair.—She thought, "This was the baby Jacques loved"—who had clung to him as she never clung to her own father, who had listened as eagerly as she herself listened for the pit-a-patter of his racking horse, who had refused to be consoled when he passed without stopping. This was the baby, this stern, hard-eyed young girl, who had been their constant companion in the days of their unspoken love, equally dear to both of them, lavishing upon both her impartial ardors. Does memory only commence with thought, then? Do the loves through which we pass from cradle to grave disappear without leaving even a tenderness to show where they have been?

Jemima's throat contracted with hate at the very mention of Jacques' name. Had she learned so suddenly, perhaps, to hate her mother, too?

Nothing more was said of the girl's leaving home. She remained in her mother's house, but without capitulation. It was "her mother's house" now, no longer home. She was one of those proud, not ignoble natures whose affection is entirely dependent upon respect. Her mother had been the great figure in her rather narrow life, object of a silent, critical, undemonstrative affection which was the furthest possible remove from Jacqueline's or Kate's own idea of love, but which in its way amounted to hero-worship. When Kate with her own lips destroyed her daughter's faith in her, she had unwittingly destroyed an idol.

The moral lapse to which she admitted was as incomprehensible to this cool and level-headed observer of nineteen as actual sin. She realized that her mother had been unfaithful to her father—whether literally or spiritually did not matter—and that instead of repenting she was prepared to augment her unfaithfulness by putting in her husband's place the man who had killed him. These were the facts that stood out before her in all their naked horror, and it was impossible for her temperament to find either palliation or excuse.

The tragedy of the discovery left its mark upon young Jemima. Her lips retained permanently a certain cold fixity, that reminded more than one person who remembered him of Basil Kildare, and it was significant that she was never called again by her old pet-name of "the Apple-Blossom."

Kate made many efforts to break down the barrier between them, efforts which Philip and even the unobservant Jacqueline found piteous. But they did not touch Jemima. She turned to the girl often for advice—a new and strange thing indeed for the Madam; discussed business matters with her, asked her opinion with a deference that would once have flattered Jemima immensely. Now she responded politely, with forced interest, as if she were a guest in her mother's house.

Kate asked once, "What about those parties you were going to have, dear? Surely you have not given up the social campaign?"

"No, Mother," answered the girl, "I don't often give things up, you know."

Kate did know. Neither had Basil Kildare often "given things up."

She went on with some effort, "I've been thinking lately over some of the good times we used to have when I was a girl. Those of us who lived outside of town, as you do, used to invite the others to house-parties—only we did not call them 'house-parties' in those days, or 'week-ends.' We called it 'staying all night.' Why shouldn't you and Jacky have young people out to stay all night? There's room enough for dozens of them at a time, and plenty of horses to ride. Boys and girls don't need much in the way of amusement except each other." She paused. "What do you say, daughter—shall I have a bathroom or two put into the guest-wing, and some fresh papers and curtains, and make it all ready for company again?"

"That would be very nice, Mother," said the girl, slowly, "only, you see, we don't know any young people to invite."

"I've thought of that, too!" Kate spoke with an eagerness more pathetic than tears. "Of course many of those boys and girls I used to know have boys and girls of their own now. It's many years since I've seen them, but—I think they won't all have forgotten me. If you like, I'll write and ask some of them to let their children visit us?"

If Jemima had any knowledge of the wincing courage this offer cost, she did not show it. "You're very kind to think of it," she said, "but I believe it will be better if Jacqueline and I make our own friends now, thank you."

Cut to the quick, Kate made no further effort to promote the social campaign. But it went on without her.

One evening Professor Thorpe, after his weekly supper at Storm, followed her into her office with an air of mingled embarrassment and importance.

"Oh, dear!" she thought. "It's coming again."

But she was mistaken. He had a proposal of another sort to make; in fact an announcement.

"I am about to give an entertainment," he said, clearing his throat. "A party. A dancing party."

She looked at him in amazement. "You? A dancing party?"

"Why not? It is to be for your girls, and I shall expect you to chaperon it."

She threw back her head and laughed aloud. "Dear old Jim! I should be as much out of place in a ballroom now as—as a plow horse. But the girls will be overjoyed. How did you happen to evolve such an idea?"

"I didn't. It—er—was evolved for me. Jemima—"

Kate sobered. "I might have known it, Jim! I cannot have you so imposed upon. You must not undertake such a thing."

"But I wish to," he insisted stoutly. "I am very much obliged to Jemima for thinking of it. It is quite true, as she says, that I am under obligation to many people who have been most kind to me. It is true also that I have joined a country club, more by way of encouraging an infant—er—industry than with any idea of pleasure to myself. But, as Jemima says, when one joins a club one should patronize it. She tells me that it will be quite possible to make a dancing man of me with a few weeks' practice, and that in her opinion exercise and young society are what is needed to—er—to round out my individuality. Jemima is doubtless right—she usually is. So I shall issue invitations to a dancing party at the Country Club, preceded by dinner, as is customary."

Kate laughed again, but with dim eyes. The stanch devotion of this gentle, kindly scholar was a thing she found very touching. "Dear old Slow-poke!"—she used the name she and her livelier companions had given him in the days when he was the dull and quiet one among her followers. "So you are going to play sponsor to my children once more!"

Both fell silent, remembering the day when he had followed her down the aisle of the church that meant home to her, under the blank, icy stare of an entire congregation. He lifted her hand to his lips.

"Jim, I am afraid," she said suddenly. "Women—you know how cruel they can be! Suppose they choose to punish my children for my sins?" With a fierce upwelling of the maternal instinct, she dreaded to let her young go out of her own protection, out of the safe obscurity she had made for them.

He reassured her as best he could, reminding her of the years that had passed, and of her daughters' charm. "Why, those girls would bring their own welcome anywhere! They are exquisite."

"You are prejudiced, Jim, dear."

He admitted it without shame. "But those young men I brought here to supper—they are not prejudiced, Kate, and I assure you they dog my footsteps begging to be brought again."

"Oh, men!—I am never afraid of men. It is the women I dread."

"Then we won't have any women," cried the Professor.

Kate smiled. "Oh, yes, you will! Jemima has read about chaperons in novels. She'll see to that."

"Wouldn't I be a sufficient chaperon?"

"You can't be a chaperon and a dancing man as well," she teased him. "Take your choice. Oh, I foresee a strenuous career ahead of you, my friend! Think of the invitations, and the decorations, and the favors, and the menu!"

"I had not thought of it in detail," admitted the Professor, rather nervously. "You—you alarm me. Still, I shall go through with it."

"You will indeed, with Jemima at the helm," she murmured. "You poor lamb! Perhaps the famous nephew will be of some assistance? I dare say he knows a good deal about balls, and things of that sort."

"Unfortunately, J. Percival is no longer my guest"—the Professor spoke a little stiffly. "At present he is visiting your neighbor Mr. Farwell, at Holiday Hill—an old acquaintance, I understand. You have seen nothing of him?"

She shook her head. "We do not know Mr. Farwell, and we are rather simple folk to appeal to the literary palate."

"Humph!" said the other dubiously. "I should not call Jemima, for instance, exactly a simple person. Look out for him, Kate!"

She raised her eyebrows. "You speak as if your famous nephew were a ravening wild wolf, Jim!"

"He's worse—He's a—temperamentalist," said the other, grimly. It was not the word he had started to use.

The old hall of Storm, with its memories of many a wild festivity, had never served as background for a prettier sight than Jemima and Jacqueline Kildare, coming shyly down the steps in their first ball-dresses, followed by a girl in gingham, equally young and pretty, with an anxious proprietary eye upon the hang and set of their fineries.

"Don't you hug 'em, please, Miss Kate," warned this girl as they descended. "Tulle musses so easy."

There was a long "A-ah!" of delight from the foot of the stairs, where the entire household was assembled, to the youngest pickaninny from the quarters. Jemima, exquisite and fragile as a snow-spirit in her white tulle, descended with the queenly stateliness that seems possible only to very small women; but Jacqueline, pink as a rose, flushed and dewy as if she had just been plucked from the garden, took the final steps with a run and landed in her mother's arms, despite Mag's warning.

"Aren't we perfectly grand?" she demanded. "Did you ever see anything as beautiful as us? See my gloves—almost as long as my arms! And my neck doesn't look so awfully bony, does it? There's lots of it, anyway, and it's white." She inflated her chest to full capacity, and looked around the circle for approval. Philip was there, as well as Professor Thorpe, who had come to fetch them in the Ark. Each had boxes in their hands.

"O-oh!" cried Jacqueline in delight. "Presents! What have you brought us?"

Professor Thorpe's boxes proved to contain flowers, and Philip presented to each of them a charming antique fan.

"Why, Reverend! How did you know girls used such things? It must be your French blood cropping out."

"I found them among mother's things," he explained, "and I knew she would like you to have them."

The girl sobered, and stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. Jemima thanked him quietly, and laid her fan on a table. Philip and Kate exchanged a quick glance of understanding. It was evident that she meant to accept nothing from a Benoix. Young Jemima Kildare was of the stuff that makes the Kentucky blood-feuds possible.

There was an awkward pause, broken by Professor Thorpe. "We ought to be starting, I think. The Ark, while willing, has its little weaknesses, and it would not do for my guests to arrive and find neither host nor guests of honor present."

"Wait a moment," said Kate. "I, too, have presentations to make."

She produced two white velvet boxes bearing the name of a famous New York jeweler.

"Oh, what pretty little pinky-white beads!" cried Jacqueline, clasping hers about her throat and prancing to a mirror to observe the effect.

Jemima examined hers, and then looked quickly at her mother.

"Are they pearls?" she asked.

"Yes," said Kate. "Small ones, but a good investment, I think. Some day when you're older, girlies, perhaps you'll like to remember that your mother earned the money that bought them." She spoke to both of them, but it was to Jemima that her unconscious plea was made.

The older girl hesitated. Then she murmured, "Thank you, Mother. They are beautiful," and fastened them about her throat.

Kate gave a little sigh of relief, echoed by James Thorpe. Both had feared for a moment that she would refuse her mother's gift as she had refused Philip's.

"Come, come," said Professor Thorpe, "we really must start. Two hours' drive before us!"

Jacqueline clung to her mother. "Oh, if you were only coming too, Mummy! If you only were! Just say the word, and I won't go. Why, you'll be here alone, Mummy, darling, alone all night! You'll miss us dreadfully. What do I care about beaux and balls. I'd rather be with you than with any one else in the world—Almost any one else," she added honestly, flushing.

Kate laughed, and pushed her away. "Mag is looking daggers at us. We mustn't crumple that finery any more, precious.—Remember not to talk at the top of your lungs.—Have you got a pocket-handkerchief?"

She followed them out to the waiting automobile, smiling; but Philip noticed that her lips moved now and then silently, and he suspected that she was praying. He was right. It was the first time in their lives that her children had gone out of her own protection.

Mag shrouded them in long dust garments, tucked the robes about them solicitously, having first wrapped each white-slippered foot in tissue paper. The passionate interest of the girl in the pleasures of these other girls, pleasures she could never hope to share, struck two at least of the onlookers as a rather piteous thing.

"Good-by, good-by!" Jacqueline leaned out to throw last kisses impartially. "How I wish you were coming too, Mag and Mummy and Phil, you dears! I'll remember everything to tell you, compliments, and all, and dresses especially, Mag. I'll bring home all the goodies I can stuff into my pockets, too—oh, dear, there aren't any pockets to a ball dress! Never mind—I'll put 'em in Goddy's pockets. Good-by! When next you see us, we'll be real young ladies."

Kate stood gazing after them as wistfully as Mag, both following with their thoughts two happy young adventurers into a happy world forever closed to themselves. "You'd like to be going to a ball yourself, wouldn't you?" said she, to the girl beside her.

"Would I? Oh, my Gawd! Would I?" gasped Mag, and ran into the house.

The repressed intensity of the reply startled Mrs. Kildare. She looked at Philip. "Did you hear that? I wonder if the girl isn't happy here."

The past few months had done a great deal for Mag Henderson's body, whatever they had accomplished for her soul. Maternity had developed her lissome figure into beautiful lines; health, the result of care and good feeding, colored her lips and her cheeks and her pretty, shallow eyes; she had learned not only the trick of dressing becomingly, but of keeping her hair, her hands, and her feet as neat as those of a lady. Even her voice had lost something of its uncouth drawl, and its lazy softness had a charm of its own. She was very imitative.

For some time Philip had been aware that his lady's protégée was developing into an attractive young woman.

"You say she seems devoted to the child?" he asked thoughtfully.

"I think so, yes. She is always making clothes for the baby, and playing with it, and petting it—when Jacqueline will let her. But,"—Kate sighed faintly—"maternity isn't enough for all women, it seems."

It was such remarks as this that gave Philip his strong hope for the future.

But now he put himself aside to consider the problem of Mag Henderson. From the first he had foreseen that it was not a problem to be handled as simply as Kate thought to handle it. The psychological instinct of the priest was very strong in him—doubtless there had been many a good curé of souls among past generations of Benoixes, professing an older faith than his. In moments of clear vision that came to him he battled, as all thinkers must battle, with a great discouragement, a sense of helplessness that was almost terrifying. Of what use man's puny human endeavors against the forces of predestination arrayed against him—the forces of heredity, temperament, opportunity?

Mag Henderson cost him a wakeful night; and from her his thoughts kept straying oddly and unaccountably to Jacqueline, little Jacqueline, his playmate and pupil and chum, with her mischievous, daredevil impulses and her generous heart. He jerked his thoughts back angrily to poor Mag Henderson.

Why should he bracket the two together thus, the one a weed shooting up in a neglected fence corner, the other the loveliest and most lovingly tended blossom in a garden?—why, indeed, except that both were come, weed and flower alike, to the period of their blooming.

Kate's thoughts, too, were busy with her young adventurers into the world, throughout a wakeful night; only her anxieties did not concern themselves with Jacqueline. A nature so trusting, so unconscious, so bubbling over with friendliness toward all mankind, could not fail to make friends for itself among strangers, among even enemies. She had smiled to notice Jacqueline's success with the young men Thorpe had brought to supper. Her own girlhood had been a succession of just such triumphs. But belle as she was, many a ballroom had been spoiled for her by the sight of girls to whom it was not a scene of triumph, to whom it was no less than a battlefield, where the vanquished face defeat with the fixed and piteous smile of the hopeless wallflower.

Her heart yearned over her eldest daughter. Poor, clever, pretty Jemima, who knew so well what she wanted of life, and wanted it so determinedly! A world of which carefree gaiety is the essential element might be very cruel to Jemima. If Kate could have plucked out her own charm by the roots and given it to her child for a weapon, she would have done it thankfully.

She fell asleep at last over one of the prayers that had been unconsciously upon her lips that day: "Make people nice to them, God! You must see that my girls have partners, both of them, since I am not there to attend to it myself."

Kate's relations with her Creator, while informal, were remarkably confident, for a woman who believed herself non-religious....

It was a worn and leaden-eyed professor who returned the adventurers to Storm late the next day.

"Take me to a bed," he demanded wearily. "No, I shall not have supper, nor a julep, nor anything but a bed. I'd like to sleep without stirring for a week!"

Jacqueline embraced him with the arm that was not at the moment embracing her mother. "Poor old Goddy! Was it done to a frazzle, turkey-trotting with all the chaperons? You ought to have seen 'em, Mummy! Ladies as old as you are, yes, and older! hopping about like Dervishes. I'm glad you don't do such things.—But it was glorious! Crowds of beaux, and I tore all the lace off my petticoat, and we made the band play 'Home, Sweet Home,' five times. You know that is what they play when the party is over."

"Still?" murmured Kate, smiling. She had a momentary recollection of times when she, too, had made the band repeat "Home, Sweet Home," she with Basil Kildare....

"As for Jemmy," went on the eager, excited voice. "You just ought to have seen her! My, my!"

"What about Jemmy?" asked the mother, quickly.

"Why, she gathered in the handsomest man in the room, simply annexed him. He broke in on every dance and took her to a corner to talk! All those snippy girls in the dressing-room were wild with jealousy. Don't ask me how she did it. I don't know! Tell mother how you did it, Jem."

"Oh, it was simple enough," said the other, shrugging. "I saw that I was not going to have a very good time unless I had somebody to fall back on, so I selected him. He wore his hair rather long and romantic. I told him he had the face of a poet. He spent the rest of the evening reciting original verses to me. That was all. But it looked well."

Kate gazed at her daughter with respect. Her anxiety for Jemima's future died on the spot.

"And Jacqueline?" she murmured. "Did she, too, manage to distinguish herself?"

"Oh, Jacky never needs to manage," said the older girl, with a pride in her little sister that was not lacking in nobility. "Whenever I wanted to find Jacky, I looked for the nearest crowd of men. They were like flies around a honey-pot."

Thorpe nodded smiling confirmation. "It was like old times. More than one person said to me, 'Kate Leigh is back again!'"

She flushed, incredulously. "They spoke of me?"

"Of course they did," cried Jacqueline, hugging her. "I was so proud. All the old men told me I looked like you, and most of them tried to kiss me when they got me alone."

"Great Heavens! I hope they didn't succeed?"

"Not all of them," said Jacqueline, demurely....

But her mother was not laughing when she followed Jemima into her room, and closed the door behind them.

"Now tell me everything that happened. What did Jacqueline mean by 'snippy' girls? Were any of those women rude to you?"

"Oh, no, Mother, not rude, of course." The lift of Jemima's chin said quite plainly, "I should not have permitted that."

"But they were not nice to you?"

The girl hesitated. Slowly the blood mounted up her delicate cheeks to the roots of her hair. Kate saw with dismay that her lips were trembling.

"My child!"—she took a step toward her.

But Jemima drew back, mastering herself. "Somebody ought to have told us, you or Professor Jim, or somebody," she said, quaveringly, "Perhaps you didn't know, but—Oh, Mother we made a dreadful mistake!"

"In going?" Kate clenched her hands. The look on her set face boded ill for people who had hurt her children.

"Those ball dresses!" Jemima brought it out with a despairing sob. "How was I to know? The magazines didn't say anything about it, and nobody told me. But all the other girls wore hats and high necks! Some of them even had on coat suits!"

Kate stared. "Is that all?" Suddenly she threw back her head, and laughed until she cried. She tried to stop, realizing that the thing was no less than a tragedy to ambitious Jemima. But the relief after what she had feared for them was too great.

"It seems to amuse you, Mother," said the girl, with dignity. "Perhaps you are above such things. Jacqueline and I are not. It was not pleasant to be thought country green-horns by all those strange, staring people. That author, Mr. Channing, was there, too,—and never came near me, though I think he did dance once or twice with Jacqueline.—There is nothing, nothing in this world," she said passionately, "as terrible as being different!"

Somewhere in Kate's reading she had come across a phrase that stuck, "The Herd-spirit, which shuns abnormality." She searched for the words to comfort her child, and found them.

"My dear, since the world began people of unusual ability have found themselves 'different,' and have suffered because of it. It is not a matter of dress, or manner, or any outside thing, and assuredly it is not a difference to be ashamed of. People like us," she said quietly, "must learn to smile at the Herd-spirit."

Jemima's eyes met hers squarely. An answering gleam came into them; and for the moment the barrier between mother and daughter was down. They recognized each other.

The following week brought a pleasant surprise, and Jemima was comforted further. It was a letter from an old school friend of Mrs. Kildare's, Mrs. Lawrence, reminding her of their early intimacy, speaking of the pleasure it had been to meet her two lovely daughters, and inviting them to visit her in Lexington at a date named, that they might share with her own daughters some of the gaieties of town life.

Kate suspected Thorpe's hand in this invitation. For twenty years Mrs. Lawrence had lived within an hour's railroad journey of Storm, and this was the first reminder of their friendship. But far from resenting the belated kindness, she was deeply grateful for it; a fact which caused young Jemima's pride to wince for her mother. She herself, in such circumstances, would have returned the letter without comment.

Nevertheless, it was she who decided her mother to accept the invitation. Kate had hesitated, dreading to expose her children for the second time unprotected to the mercies of people who had ostracized her. But Jemima said with her usual decision, "We must go, of course, since you have no personal objection. It would be foolish to decline any opportunity that offers. That is what Professor Jim gave us the party for; to create opportunities."

"Is it?" asked Kate. "I thought it was to make friends."

"The same thing," explained Jemima. "One has to consider the future."

To the amaze of both, however, Jacqueline flatly declined to visit Mrs. Lawrence on any terms whatsoever.

"I'd rather stay here," was her calm response to all her sister's pleading.

"But, Jacky, we must get to know some girls!"

"Why must we? Silly, giggling, whispering creatures—you go and make the girl friends, Jemmy! I'd rather have beaux."

"And how are you to find any around here, I'd like to know?"

Jacqueline smiled demurely. "Perhaps they'll come and find me." Jemima could cheerfully have shaken her. "Anyway, I'd rather stay with mummy, and baby Kitty, and the colts, and all. You go and do the society act for both of us, sister," she coaxed. "You do it so beautifully. Think how you annexed that beautiful young man all those girls were smitten with! And you know how to be politely rude to people. I don't."

Occasionally her young sister's powers of observation surprised Jemima.

She heaved a sigh. "I suppose I shall have to go alone, then," she said. "Somebody will always do your share of the world's work, Jacky,"—but she kissed her sister even as she scolded her.

Kate was more than a little puzzled. With a return of her old shrewdness, she sought for possible reasons that might be keeping this joyous, pleasure-loving replica of her young self from the scene of further triumphs. Was it simply shyness? But Jacqueline had never been self-conscious enough to be shy. Had something occurred to rouse in her the fierce Kildare pride? Kate dismissed that fear promptly. Snubs and slights would fall harmless from such an armor of confidence in the world's friendly intentions toward her. Jacqueline would not recognize an insult if she saw it.

Her study of the girl made her aware for the first time of the change that had taken place in her. She saw, startled, that tender, radiant, exquisite young woman who had replaced her little daughter.

Instantly her thoughts went to Philip. Could it be Philip who was keeping her at home?

Kate's heart leaped in her breast. This marriage, planned in Jacqueline's infancy to clear her name and her children's from at least one stigma that rested upon it, had never been out of her mind. Now it was the one thing toward which her hopes, so lately torn from their rooted hold, were still straining. Jacques' son and her daughter—at least there should be that tie between herself and the man she loved. Some day perhaps her grandson would look at her with the eyes of Jacques....

The girl, she had believed, must be still too young for any thought of marriage. But was she? Was she? The Leigh women matured early. She herself had been quite ready for marriage at seventeen. As for Philip, how was it with him?

From the day she had brought him home with her from his boarding-school, a sensitive, lonely lad of fourteen, he had been like a big brother to her children; at first their guardian playfellow, sharing with them his lore of field and wood and stream; later their tutor, during the months when he was not absent at the seminary which the old rector of the parish had persuaded him to enter; later still, their spiritual adviser and director, exercising over them a certain quiet authority which amused their mother but which was not resented in the least by either of the high-spirited girls. He and Jemima were excellent friends, or had been until her recent discovery about his father. It was to the older girl he turned for assistance in parish matters, and Kate realized that Jemima was far better fitted than her light-hearted sister for the manifold duties of a clergyman's wife. But from the first, little Jacqueline had been his especial pet and comrade—possibly because of her resemblance to her mother. They rode together, sang together, read together, even quarreled together, with a familiarity which shocked Jemima's inborn respect for "the Cloth".... Had there been always in this marked favoritism the germ of love? the mother wondered.

Of late Philip had been more at the house even than usual. He dropped in at all hours of the day with the excuse of books to be brought, new music to be tried, matters of many sorts to be discussed. It reminded Kate a little sadly of the days when his father had found just such excuses to spend his time at Storm. To be sure, he rarely found Jacqueline at home, and as Jemima systematically avoided him nowadays, he was thrown almost entirely upon her own companionship. But Kate easily persuaded herself that this was merely an accident, and one which she might in future control.

Now that she had thought of it, she had twice lately met Philip with Jacqueline, riding very slowly and in earnest conversation—those two, who usually took the roads and the fields at a flying gallop, daring each other on to further recklessness. Also, she recalled the last miles of that journey from Frankfort, when the girl sat between them, playing with hands, lips, and crooning voice her self-appointed rôle of comforter. It would be a stony-hearted celibate indeed who resisted little Jacqueline in the rôle of comforter.

Kate Kildare smiled to herself, content. At least one of her dreams was coming true. The old lying scandal would die in time and be forgotten. Fate, her enemy—what match was it for three such allies as propinquity, nature, and a wise mother?

The fact was that Philip, in his double capacity of priest and of bodyguard to the household of his liege lady, had been for some time aware of a thing that troubled him deeply. It was Philip who brought to the Madam's notice much that required her attention in her domain, but this he did not bring to her attention. His hands were tied.

Shortly after the episode of the Night Riders, he had happened to be driving in an adjoining county, when to his amazement a large automobile flashed by with Jacqueline at the wheel, speaking over her shoulder to a man who sat beside her. In the glimpse he had of them, Philip thought he recognized the man as Percival Channing. They were too absorbed in each other to notice him, hidden as he was in the depths of his buggy. Jacqueline's laugh floated back to him as they passed, a soft little laugh that brought a sudden frown to Philip's face. Her expert handling of the great car told its own story.

"That won't do at all!" muttered Philip aloud. Then he took himself up sharply—"Why won't it do?" The man was James Thorpe's nephew, a gentleman, a person of some distinction; certainly a fit companion for Kate's children. Why should he feel uneasy? That Jacqueline had not mentioned the further acquaintance with him might be merely an oversight. After all, the girl must marry some day, though the thought of losing his little playfellow gave Philip a pang.

"I see," he said casually at Storm that night, "that the author is still in our midst. I suppose he has called here, hasn't he?"

He spoke to Kate, not glancing in the direction of Jacqueline.

"Oh, yes. We found his cards one afternoon, with Mr. Farwell's," answered Kate. "I am sorry not to have seen him."

"He will probably come again," said Jemima, rather importantly. "In fact I asked him to, the other night at Professor Jim's party."

Jacqueline made a gleeful face at her sister's back, not unnoted by Philip.

"So-o!" he said to himself gravely. "I shall have to make friends with this gentleman...."

He was on his way to Holiday Hill the next afternoon, when at the very gate he met Jacqueline coming out. She laughed; rather consciously for Jacqueline. "I've been returning that call," she said.

"So I see. Has Mrs. Farwell come, then?"

"Mrs. Farwell? Oh, no. She never comes. Mr. Farwell isn't here either, just now," she said innocently. "So I dropped in to—to keep Mr. Channing company." She began to flush, realizing that she had betrayed herself. "We were practising his songs together. We—we often do." She stammered a little.

"I see," he said again, lightly. It was not his policy to discourage confidences. "So Mr. Channing writes songs, as well as novels?"

"Oh, wonderful ones, Phil! You'd love them. I do wish you could hear them."

"I'd like to. Why not bring me the next time you come to practise?"

She looked down; then her eyes met his frankly. "I'd rather not, Phil. He wouldn't like it. Geniuses are peculiar. You see, we sing better when we're not disturbed. You know how that is, don't you?"

His heart contracted with sudden sympathy. He knew only too well "how it was." It seemed to him that lately his life was one long conspiracy against Fate to find Kate Kildare alone. Abroad, the eyes of the world seemed always turned upon them; at home she was surrounded by an impregnable barrier of daughters. On the rare occasions when he did manage to achieve the coveted solitude à deux, their talk was of farming, of the parish, of business, and in the end always of his father, his father. Her dependence upon him, her affection for him, was evident, but there was a curiously impersonal, almost absent-minded quality about it that sometimes chilled Philip and his budding hopes. When she spoke out her inmost thoughts, even when she took his hand or laid her arm across his shoulders with the impulsive, caressing gestures that were as common to her as to Jacqueline, he had the feeling that she was thinking of another man.

Philip was well fitted to understand Jacqueline just then. "My dear," he said quietly, "are you in love with Mr. Channing?"

The question took her by surprise. She paled, and then the lovely rose came over her face again in a hot flood. "Oh, yes, yes, Phil!" she cried eagerly. "Do come and ride beside me, and let me tell you all about it. I've been wanting dreadfully to tell somebody who would understand. You're such a comfortable sort of person."

Philip's greatest gift was the art of listening. He employed it now, turning to her a glance steady and encouraging, concealing the anxiety that gnawed at his mind, why he could not say. The natural priest is as intuitive perhaps as the natural woman.

She took him into her confidence fully, concealing nothing. He learned about their daily meetings, either at the Ruin, or if Farwell happened to be absent, at Holiday Hill. She told him of their long automobile rides together, while she was supposed to be off exercising some of the horses; of the book he was beginning to write with her assistance; ("I inspire it," she explained gravely); of his belief in her own future career as a singer.

"He's going to help me, to introduce me to singers and teachers and—impresarios, I think they're called. He's going to make mother send me abroad to study, first. He says it's wicked to keep me shut up here away from life. All artists have got to see a great deal of life, you know, if they're to amount to anything. Oh, isn't it wonderful?" she broke off, "that such a man as that should ever have noticed me at all?"

Philip, glancing at the radiant young face, did not find it altogether wonderful.

"I suppose he makes love to you?" he asked.

She dimpled. "Of course! But in such a funny way, Phil. He doesn't seem to mean to, or to want to, exactly. We read a good deal, and talk about the world, and things like that, and sing—but all the time I know what he's thinking about, and—and I'm thinking about it, too! We don't read and sing and talk all the time—" She clasped her hands ecstatically, lines and all. "Oh, Phil darling, I wish you were in love, too! It's so perfect.—But you will be some day, and then I hope," she added quaintly, "that you'll have somebody as dear and comfortable as you are to confide in. A spiritual pastor and master is so safe, too. You may scold me, Reverend, and you may laugh at me—you're doing it now—but you can never tell on me."

"No," he admitted, "I never can. But why not tell on yourself, dear? Why so much mystery? Are you ashamed of being in love?"

He looked at her keenly. But though she hesitated, she met his eyes without embarrassment. "I think I am, a little. Not ashamed, exactly, but—shy. It's such a queer feeling, being in love. I never had it before. It makes you want not to eat, or sleep, or play with the baby, or do anything but just think of him; how he looked the last time you saw him, what he said, and—did. If people knew, they'd tease me, and watch me, and I couldn't bear that. I just couldn't bear it! Then there's Jemmy. She's so odd. She doesn't like to see me kissing the baby, even, or loving it. She thinks it isn't quite nice. If she knew about Mr. Channing—! Besides, she's so much cleverer than I am, so much more his sort, really. If he'd known her first he would probably have liked her best. I'd rather—just for a while, I'd rather—"

"Keep him out of Jemima's reach?" murmured Philip, amused.

She nodded. "You do understand things, don't you? Jemmy's so much cleverer than I am. Just until I'm sure of him, Philip—"

He asked quietly, "You're not sure of him, then?"

She gave him a demure glance under her infantile lashes. "Oh, yes, I am! But he's not quite sure of himself." She chuckled. "Mr. Channing thinks he doesn't want to marry any one, you see!"

It was what Philip had been waiting for from the first. His voice changed a little, and became the voice of the priest. "You need not tell your sister, Jacqueline; but your mother ought to know of this."

"I don't want her to know."

"Why not?"

"Oh, because," was the purely feminine answer. She added, troubled by his grave silence, "Mummy might not want me to see so much of him, if she knew. She can't realize that I'm grown up now. Old people forget how they felt when they were young." She was vaguely trying to express love's dread of being brought to earth, of being hampered by the fetters of a fixed relation.

"'Old people!' Your mother?" Philip spoke rather sharply.

"Oh, well, not old, of course. Still, she's too old to fall in love.—Anyway, there are some things a girl can't talk about with her mother; you ought to know there are." The glance she gave him was both embarrassed and appealing.

Alas for Kate's carefully fostered intimacy with her children, vanished at the first touch of a warmer breath!

Philip put his hand over hers on the bridle-rein. "My dear," he said earnestly, "there is nothing, absolutely nothing, you cannot talk about with your mother. She's that sort. Always remember it."

She jerked her hand away with a pettish gesture. "For goodness' sake, stop being so ancient and fatherly! And what right have you to tell me anything about mother? I don't mind your explaining about God to me, and Christian duty, and things like that. It's your business, and I suppose it bores you as much as anybody. But when you talk as if you had a special vested right in my own mother,—that's too much! As if you could possibly know her as well as I do!"

She spurred her horse and galloped ahead furiously. But at the next turn of the road she was waiting, remorseful.

"Forgive me for being a crosspatch, Flippy dear?" Her voice would have coaxed forgiveness from a stone. "I always am sort of—sort of foolish about mummy, you know."

"I have no fault to find with you for being foolish about your mother," said Philip.

"Then, that's all right!" She blew him a kiss, and prepared to leave him. "And of course I will tell her everything, soon. When she knows, she's going to be glad, gladder than anybody. I remember once,"—the girl's face grew very tender—"we were just little things, Jemmy and I, but she was talking to us, like she does. She said, 'When the right man comes along, my girlies, be sure he is the right man, and then don't be afraid. Love him with all your might and main, and be sure he knows it. There's nothing in the world so mean as a niggardly lover!' I—I am not a niggardly lover, Philip," she added shyly.

His throat contracted. Jacqueline's naïveté was singularly touching to him.

"Wait a moment," he said, detaining her. "Since I must keep the great secret, I want you to promise me one thing. Do not go to Mr. Farwell's house alone any more. You see," he explained to her widened eyes, "there aren't any women there. Girls do not call on men."

"I go to your house whenever I like!"

He smiled. "As you yourself said once, I'm 'not men.' But it isn't done, little girl. Take my word for that, please."

"Very well!" she chuckled. "You sound like Jemmy!—But I promise. I like the Ruin better anyway. More private."

She waved back at him, put her horse lightly over a fence, and was off across the fields at a full gallop.

He went his way thoughtfully. Philip was beginning to find his duties as guardian of Kate Kildare and her children somewhat onerous. He tried to reassure himself with the thought of Jacqueline's youth. Mature as she had become in body, in mind she was still a child. At that age, love could not be lasting.

But while it lasted, could it not devastate?

Often in this Kentucky valley he had known languorous Februaries when orchard and garden, deceived by a fierce-wooing sun, trustingly put forth their treasures, only to find them blackened and withered when the true spring came. Dear little Jacqueline, glowing, tremulous, instinct with the joy and passion of giving—for to Kate Kildare's child love meant always giving—was she to know so soon the blight of disillusionment?

"Not if I can help it," muttered Philip, squaring his jaws, and set his horse once more in the direction of Holiday Hill.

He intended to discover just how far and for what reason Percival Channing was averse to the state of matrimony.