its brief and piteous life, husband and
wife came almost close to each other.

To the man with his passion for physical perfection, the breeder of
thoroughbred horses and cattle and dogs, the fact that a child of his
should have been born without this precious heritage was a thing
incredible, a humiliation beyond words. Whenever he looked at the tiny,
whimpering creature, he asked pardon of her with his eyes for so
monstrous an injustice. He never tired of carrying her about in his
powerful arms, of rubbing the poor twisted limbs in an effort to ease
the pain away.

"The stock's sound enough," he would say again and again. "I'm all
right, and you're all right, Kit. What's the matter with her?"

Once he whispered in sudden horror, "I've been a pretty bad lot, Kate.
God! Do you suppose _I'm_ to blame for this?"

She comforted him with her arms about his neck.

When the child died, Kildare himself made its grave, and carried the
coffin in his arms across the fields to the little pasture burying-lot
where lay all the Kildares of Storm. It was a queer funeral; none the
less pitiful for its queerness. First Basil with the coffin, the two
great hounds gamboling and baying around him in their delight at going
for a walk with the family; then Kate, alone and quite tearless; then a
dozen wailing, hysterical negroes. Benoix and a few others met them at
the grave, but there was no clergyman. Kate herself spoke what she could
of the burial service, till her memory and her voice failed her. Then
Kildare picked his wife up in his arms, and carried her home as tenderly
as he had carried his child's coffin.

But that night he was so drunk that Kate kept the woman Mahaly in her
room for safety.

It was during this time, with maternity, and sorrow, and womanhood, that
love came to her. She did not know it. She knew only that things could
be borne so long as Benoix was there to help her, guarding,
understanding; Benoix with his steady eyes, and his gentle strength to
share with her weakness.

They needed little excuse for their constant companionship; mere
neighborliness; small Jemima's health; presents of flower-seeds and
baby-patterns from his wife; books to be lent or borrowed, for Kate had
turned to books at last. Kate's strength was slow in returning, and she
spent much of the day sitting in the garden with her baby. It came to be
Benoix' habit to stop there for a while coming or going from his house
beyond. The baby knew t