ught,
"This was the baby Jacques loved"--who had clung to him as she never
clung to her own father, who had listened as eagerly as she herself
listened for the pit-a-patter of his racking horse, who had refused to
be consoled when he passed without stopping. This was the baby, this
stern, hard-eyed young girl, who had been their constant companion in
the days of their unspoken love, equally dear to both of them, lavishing
upon both her impartial ardors. Does memory only commence with thought,
then? Do the loves through which we pass from cradle to grave disappear
without leaving even a tenderness to show where they have been?

Jemima's throat contracted with hate at the very mention of Jacques'
name. Had she learned so suddenly, perhaps, to hate her mother, too?

Nothing more was said of the girl's leaving home. She remained in her
mother's house, but without capitulation. It was "her mother's house"
now, no longer home. She was one of those proud, not ignoble natures
whose affection is entirely dependent upon respect. Her mother had been
the great figure in her rather narrow life, object of a silent,
critical, undemonstrative affection which was the furthest possible
remove from Jacqueline's or Kate's own idea of love, but which in its
way amounted to hero-worship. When Kate with her own lips destroyed her
daughter's faith in her, she had unwittingly destroyed an idol.

The moral lapse to which she admitted was as incomprehensible to this
cool and level-headed observer of nineteen as actual sin. She realized
that her mother had been unfaithful to her father--whether literally or
spiritually did not matter--and that instead of repenting she was
prepared to augment her unfaithfulness by putting in her husband's place
the man who had killed him. These were the facts that stood out before
her in all their naked horror, and it was impossible for her temperament
to find either palliation or excuse.

The tragedy of the discovery left its mark upon young Jemima. Her lips
retained permanently a certain cold fixity, that reminded more than one
person who remembered him of Basil Kildare, and it was significant that
she was never called again by her old pet-name of "the Apple-Blossom."

Kate made many efforts to break down the barrier between them, efforts
which Philip and even the unobservant Jacqueline found piteous. But they
did not touch Jemima. She turned to the girl often for advice--a new and
strange thing indeed for th