ment of confession. It was the
one cowardice of her life.

CHAPTER XII

The fact that, while the countryside had been astir for weeks with
rumors of Jacques Benoix' impending release, her daughters were quite
unaware of them was evidence of the Madam's complete sovereignty over
her realm. It would have been a brave man or woman who dared to gossip
of Mrs. Kildare's affairs with her children. They remained unconscious
of the undercurrent of excitement and speculation in the atmosphere
about them. In time, mention of the pardon and reference to the old-time
scandal it revived, was made in the newspapers; but these papers failed
to reach the reading-table at Storm, and the girls did not miss them.
Kate had never encouraged the reading of newspapers in her household,
finding the monthly reviews cleaner and more reliable; and indeed the
doings of people in the far-off world were less real to Jemima and
Jacqueline than episodes in such novels as their mother read aloud by
the evening lamp, while one girl sewed and the other lost herself in
those dreams of youth which are such "long, long dreams."

They wondered a little, it is true, over Kate's frequent absences from
home, and over the defection of Philip.

"He hasn't been here for days, and he used to come every evening,"
complained Jacqueline, always his sworn ally and companion. "No time for
riding, or music, or even lessons--not that I'm complaining of that! But
he's never been too busy for us before."

The fact was that Philip dared not trust himself at Storm just yet, not
until he had accustomed himself to the immediate thought of Kate Kildare
as his mother.

"Philip looks a little queer, too--sort of hollow about the eyes," mused
Jemima, the observant. "Still, he always was rather a solemn person."

"No such thing, Jemmy!" cried Jacqueline, who could bear no criticism of
the thing or person she loved. "He's positively giddy sometimes when I
have him alone. Anyway, wouldn't you be solemn yourself, if you had a
father in the penitentiary?"

"He ought to be used to it by this time. No, I don't believe it is that.
I believe it is mother."

"What do you mean--'mother'?"

"Oh, nothing. Only"--Jemima severely bit off a thread--"I do wish
mother'd grow wrinkled or--or fat, or something, like other people's
mothers."

"Why, Jemmy Kildare!" cried the other, shocked. "How can you say such a
thing? Mother's the most beautiful person in the world!"

"Exactly