h her
fault? Since he rejected her, of what use was she in the world?

A strange restlessness came over her, a feeling of waste, of
unfulfilment. She was so intensely alive, so eager, so sentient--surely
there must be some purpose for her yet in life; not as the mistress of
Storm, not as the mother of Basil Kildare's daughters, but as herself,
Kate, the woman. She tried to explain this restlessness to Philip,
always her confidant, content for the present with any role that brought
him in contact with her; faithfully, as his father had hidden him,
biding his time.

"What am I for?" was her cry. "What is the use of me, Philip?"

For weeks she did not give up hope of Jacques' relenting, but it was a
hope in which Philip did not encourage her. He recognized his father's
decision as final, even as wise and just; though his heart was torn
between pity and admiration for a man who was capable of such sacrifice.
And he understood his dear lady better, far better, than she understood
herself.

But if this new unrest of hers kindled certain hopes which he had never
before dared to entertain, love taught him to offer her nothing now but
comfort, the comfort of devoted friendship. It was a thing she sorely
needed, for Kate had lost, and knew it, not only the man she loved, but
her daughter Jemima.

The relations between them were evident to all observers: on the girl's
part a scrupulous, cold courtesy; on the mother's, wistful and tentative
efforts to please that would have touched any heart less youthfully hard
than Jemima's. Kate's was a nature too great to harbor resentment. Grief
had obliterated, almost as soon as it was born, her anger at the girl's
treachery in writing to Benoix; if indeed anything so open and frank as
Jemima's act could be called treachery.

The doctor had hardly left after Kate's unprecedented fainting attack,
when the girl confessed: "Mother, I think you ought to know that I
myself wrote to Dr. Benoix advising him not to come to this house. I
told him that if he did so I should leave you."

"Is that all you told him?" asked Kate. "Did you tell him the terms of
your father's will?"

The girl flushed. "Certainly not, Mother. That would not have been quite
fair, when you had promised to make good any loss that came to
Jacqueline and me through your marriage. I think," she said, "that you
may always count upon me to be quite fair."

Kate nodded, wearily. It was true, Jemima was always fair.--She tho