ht her children home to be
christened, and had been cut by an entire congregation.

He said gently, "The world's memory is short--shorter than you think. If
you were to come to Lexington now, you would find that you have many
friends there."

She gave no promise. The world's memory might be short, but she was not
of the world, and hers was long.

"Then I must even come to you," said the Bishop; and was as good as his
word thereafter....

As the long days lengthened into weeks, Kate gave up all pretense of
activity, and resigned herself to waiting; waiting for she knew not
what.

At first it had been Jacqueline; some word of her, or message from her.
But, gradually, thoughts of her child merged somehow into thoughts of
Jacques Benoix. She found herself dreaming of him as she had not allowed
herself to dream since she first heard that he was coming out of the
penitentiary, when their meeting seemed close, imminent, something to be
prepared for constantly lest the shock of joy should be too great. She
tried now to stop these dreams, in fear of the awakening; but could not.

Perhaps it was April in her blood, bringing to life the old habit of
wanting her mate in the mating-season. Perhaps it was her talk with
Jemima, and the girl's promise that Jacques Benoix should be found.
Jemima rarely broke a promise.--Whatever the cause, the sense of his
approach, his nearness, was sometimes so vivid that Kate felt she had
but to turn her head to see him standing there behind her.

But if she turned it, there were only the dogs, eagerly waiting her
pleasure, their tails astir; or perhaps a servant coming from the house
with a wrap for her, because the breeze was damp.

She rarely rode abroad now. Pasture and field and meadow, Nature itself,
had lost charm for her since she seemed to have no longer a share in
bringing about their miracles. She was content to sit day after day in
her eyrie, gazing out over the greening valley, watching the great
flocks of martins, grackle, and robins that passed noisily overhead,
going to meet the Spring farther north.

All about her sounded the murmur of bluebirds, which came each year to
live in the old trees about Storm. She wondered why the bluebird should
have been taken as a symbol of happiness. There is nothing more
plaintive in nature than its nesting-song, a cadence of little dropping
minor notes, which Kate, grown fanciful in her idleness, translated for
herself:

Love and lo