ide them, watchfully,
but only behind, and far behind. She knew--she had always known--that
only the childhood of her girls could belong to her. Their womanhood,
their future, they must face unaided.

It is a bitter moment for all mothers, but more especially for Kate
Kildare, who knew better than most what pitfalls lie in wait for young
and hurrying feet, and whose nightmare was inheritance.

Then a consoling thought came to her; came in the shape of Jacques
Benoix' son, Philip, with the steady eyes, and the great, tender heart
of his father. Inheritance is not always a nightmare. The future of
little Jacqueline, at least, was secure. (Thus Kate to herself, with a
characteristic self-confidence which took no account of chance or
choice, or other obstacle to her intent.)

As for Jemima--once more her lips twitched. Jemima was certainly very
capable.

Mrs. Kildare went down to meet her guests somewhat heartened.

CHAPTER IX

"This," murmured a voice into the ear of Professor Thorpe, "is the real
thing at last! Everything so far has been a rather crude imitation of
New York. I am disappointed in Lexington. But there's character here,
distinction, local color. My dear uncle, why have you not brought me to
this house before?"

"I did not bring you this time, as it happens," commented Professor
Thorpe somewhat acidly. "You came."

"Thanks to a firm character and a discerning eye. What, miss a chance of
seeing the Kildare on her native heath? Certainly not!"

The other turned and looked at him. "Suppose," he murmured, "that
hereafter you speak of my friend and your hostess as '_Mrs._ Kildare.'"

The younger man made a smiling gesture of apology. "What, ho! A
_tendresse_ here--I had forgotten," he said to himself; and added aloud,
"Of course, you know, one does speak of famous women without adding
handles to their names. The Duse, for instance, or Bernhardt--it would
be ridiculous to call them 'Madame.'"

"Mrs. Kildare is not an actress," said the Professor, primly.

His nephew's smile grew broader. He sometimes found his uncle amusing.
"I yearn to see the lady, by whatever name," he murmured. "Here she
comes now. Jove, what a woman!"

His voice quite lost its drawling note. Percival Channing was a sincere
admirer of beauty in all its forms, and he had without doubt a right to
his claim of a discerning eye. There was something that set him apart
from the other young men who had come with Professor Thorp