e Madam, and when they saw that she could not
dismount, it was Big Liza who lifted her down in her strong old arms, as
she had lifted her once before when she came, a bride, to Storm. She
carried her in to a couch, moaning over her, "Oh, my lamb, my po' lamb;
what is dey done to you now?"

The Madam could not answer.

* * * * *

Jemima Thorpe reached her mother's bedside two days later, greatly to
the relief of the household, and of Dr. Jones.

"No, it does not seem to have been a stroke of any sort," explained that
worthy and anxious man. "If Mrs. Kildare were an ordinary woman, I
should call it hysteria, but she's not the neurotic type. It appears to
be acute exhaustion, following, possibly, a shock of some kind." He
looked at Jemima inquisitively, but without eliciting the information he
sought. "At any rate, I am glad you have come, and I should suggest that
Benoix and his wife be sent for. I hear they've gone off on a trip to
New York?"

"To Europe," amended Jemima calmly. "They are now on the ocean, so they
can't be sent for."

The doctor's eyes widened. Journeys to Europe were not usual among his
patients. "Europe! Isn't that very sudden?"

"Very sudden," agreed Jemima. "Now shall we go in to mother?"

Perforce, he opened Mrs. Kildare's door, and announced with his
cheeriest bedside manner, "Here's your girl home again."

The heavy eyes flew open. "Jacqueline!" she whispered.

But when she saw that it was not Jacqueline, the lids closed, and it
seemed too much trouble to lift them again.

Jemima went on her knees, and laid a timid cheek on her mother's hand,
that strong, beautiful hand lying so strangely limp now upon the
counterpane. For the first time in her life she knew the feeling of
utter helplessness. Her efficiency had failed her. In this emergency,
she could not produce the thing her mother needed.

She wished with all her heart for her inefficient sister.

CHAPTER XLVI

Philip's pursuit of his wife came to have for him, before it was done,
something of the strangeness of a nightmare, one of those endless dreams
that come to fever patients, filled with confused, vague details of
places and persons among whom he passed, leaving nothing clear to the
memory afterwards except unhappiness.

And indeed the mental condition that urged him on was not unlike fever,
compounded as it was of passionate pity for Jacqueline, and white-hot
rage against the man w