an to worry. The lightning had been very bad. After all, storms can
be dangerous. Possibly he had met with an accident.

At last she could restrain herself no longer, and telephoned to Holiday
Hill.

A noncommittal man-servant informed her that Mr. Farwell was still away
(he had gone to Cincinnati on business for several days), and that the
other gentleman had left unexpectedly the night before. He did not add
that the household was all agog with the extreme unexpectedness of his
leaving.

Jacqueline asked, rather tremulously, whether he would be returning
soon. The servant thought not, as he had since telegraphed for all his
luggage to be sent on to New York.

It was then that she began to realize what had happened to her. She
still made excuses for him to herself. He had been thinking of her--he
had decided that he could not accept her sacrifice. Perhaps he had been
thinking a little of her mother, too, left alone there at Storm. Yes,
she was sure he had been thinking a little of her mother, whom he so
greatly admired, not understanding how eager Mrs. Kildare was for her
children's happiness.--He would write, of course, and explain....

She dared not think of the blank and dreary future, but lived from hour
to hour, watching for the mails. When the postman stopped on his daily
round at the foot of Storm Hill, she was always waiting for him.
Sometimes she met him down the road, in her eagerness. But there was
never a letter for her, except now and then a line from the traveling
Mrs. Thorpe.

Kate saw this eager watchfulness, and her heart smote her, and her
secret lay heavy on her breast. But she made no comment, even when she
noticed that the girl was neglecting her food in a manner unprecedented,
and heard her prowling about the house at night, when she should have
been asleep, like an unhappy little ghost.

"I must give her time, poor girlie," she thought, and wished that she
might consult Philip.

Philip, however, was doing some observing on his own account. He had
come across a phrase in a book recently that recurred to him whenever he
saw Jacqueline nowadays: "God gives us our eyes, our parents gives us
our noses, but we make our own mouths."

It occurred to him that Jacqueline was "making her mouth" far too
rapidly. Of a sudden the lips had lost all their childish softness and
were settling into a firm, curved line of great beauty, but which had
more than a hint of pathos. "She has no right to such a