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.