ly blue
in a dark, aquiline, un-Anglo-Saxon face. They were filled just now with
a look that made the lady blush again.

He was thinking (no new thought to Kentuckians) that of all the products
of his great commonwealth, nothing equalled such women as this before
him. Erect, deep-bosomed, with the warm brown flush of her cheeks, her
level gaze, her tender mouth with the deep corners that mean humor--Kate
Kildare, from girlhood to old age, would find in eyes that gazed on her
the unconscious tribute that many women never know, and for that reason
happily do not miss. But the vital quality of her beauty was not a
matter of color, or form, or feature. It was a thing that had come to
her since her first youth, a glow from within, the sort of spiritual
fire at which a friend may warm himself. If happiness is a great
beautifier, Philip Benoix believed he knew of one greater: sorrow.

"Well, well?" she demanded, laughing. "What are you staring at, boy? Why
are you ogling me in that sentimental fashion? Have you mistaken me
for--Jacqueline, perhaps?"

If she hoped to embarrass him in turn, she was disappointed. He shook
his head. "If I were to ogle Jacqueline sentimentally, she'd slap me.
Miss Kate," he added, "don't you know that saluting your corn was just
your pagan way of thanking God? Why not come to church and do it
properly?"

"You may just as well give it up. I shall never go to church. I don't
like church, so there! Stop talking shop, and come home to supper with
me. What are you doing here, anyway, lolling about like a man of
leisure, as if there were no souls to be saved?"

"I was lying in wait for yours. I knew you were out on a tour of
inspection, and bound to pass this way."

"Did you want to see me especially?"

"I always do."

She flicked him with her riding-crop, "You're more Irish than French
to-day! And where's your horse?"

"Well, old Tom seemed so comfortable and tired, munching away in his
stall, that I hadn't the heart--"

"So you walked. Of course _you_ weren't tired! Oh, Phil, Phil, you are
your father's own son; too soft-hearted for this 'miserable and naughty
world.' It won't be able to resist taking a whack at you."

A little silence fell between them. Both were thinking of a man who was
no longer quite of this miserable and naughty world.

"Take my stirrup and trot along beside me, boy," she said. "We'll go
faster that way. I wish you were still small enough to climb up behind
me as