shall be able to give them each a little fortune to take
its place. I am a rich woman now, aside from the Storm property. Basil
Kildare had the right, perhaps, to do as he chose with his property.
Thank God he cannot lay a finger on mine!"

She stared out straight in the direction of the little cornfield
graveyard, as if defying some ghostly presence there to do its worst.

Philip lifted the hand he held to his lips. When he spoke there was
trouble in his voice. "Do you think that when my father hears the terms
of Kildare's will, he will consent to such a sacrifice?"

She turned on him sharply. "He does not know about the will, and he must
not, certainly until after we are married. Who would tell him--you,
Philip?" Her eyes met his. "Philip! What do you mean?"

"Suppose," he said very low, "it were a matter of my conscience?"

"Then I ask you not to listen to your conscience, but to me!" She put
her hands on his shoulders. "If, as you say, you owe me anything--if you
value my friendship--if you love me, Philip--promise that you will never
tell your father!"

It was a great temptation through which he passed at that moment; a
temptation all the more subtle in that he could tell himself truly it
was for her sake he hesitated. One word to Jacques Benoix, and the thing
he dreaded, the thing suddenly so near, would never come to pass.

"Don't you know it will hurt you to give up Storm?" His voice was
hoarse. "It has been your life so long. You love the land, every stick
and stone of it."

"And every twig and grass-blade. But," she said quietly, "I love Jacques
more. Promise, dear."

He promised.

The silence fell again. Across Kate's face a moonbeam strayed and
rested, and the young man sitting in the shadow a little behind her
could not take his eyes away. He had the strange feeling that he was
looking for the last time on the woman he loved, who belonged now
irrevocably to his father. It was a glowing face, with eyes as lovely,
and lips as tremulous, as those of a dreaming bride. Before Philip she
made no attempt to conceal her thoughts. They had been confidantes too
long.

It came to him that his father must be a remarkable man to have held
through years of absence such a love as this.

"I wish I knew him better," he said, thinking aloud. "To me he is almost
a stranger."

"A stranger!" She smiled incredulously. "I should think you would find
it difficult to write those long weekly letters of yours to a
'