Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustration. See 30291-h.htm or 30291-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/30291/30291-h/30291-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/30291/30291-h.zip) Images of the original pages are available through Kentuckiana Digital Library. See http://kdl.kyvl.org/cgi/t/text/text-idx?c=kyetexts;cc=kyetexts;view=toc;idno=b92-228-31183707 KILDARES OF STORM by ELEANOR MERCEIN KELLY With Frontispiece by Alonzo Kimball New York The Century Co. 1916 Copyright, 1916, by The Century Co. Published, October, 1916 TO AN UNFORGOTTEN MOTHER Who moulded for others than her daughter the standard of great womanhood [Illustration: But for once Jacqueline of the eager lips turned her cheek, so that her mother's kiss should not disturb the memory of certain others] KILDARES OF STORM CHAPTER I Along a pleasant Kentucky road that followed nature rather than art in its curves and meanderings, straying beside a brook awhile before it decided to cross, lingering in cool, leafy hollows, climbing a sudden little hill to take a look out over the rolling countryside--along this road a single-footing mare went steadily, carrying a woman who rode cross-saddle, with a large china vase tucked under one arm. People in an approaching automobile stopped talking to stare at her. She returned their gaze calmly, while the startled mare made some effort to climb a tree, thought better of it, and sidled by with a tremulous effort at self-control. A man in the machine lifted his hat with some eagerness. The woman inclined her head as a queen might acknowledge the plaudits of the multitude. After they passed, comments were audible. "What a stunner! Who is she, Jack?" The voice was masculine. "Riding cross-saddle! Jack, do you know her?" The voice was feminine. The answer was lower, but the woman on horseback heard it. "Of course I know her, or used to. It is the woman I was telling you about, the famous Mrs. Kildare of Storm." Mrs. Kildare's color did not change as she rode on. Perhaps her lips tightened a little; otherwise the serenity of her face was unaltered. Serenity, like patience, is a thing that must be won, a habit of mind not easily to be broken. She reminded herself that since the invasion of automobiles she must expect often to encounter people who had known her before. Her eyes, keen and gray and slightly narrowed, like all eyes that are accustomed to gaze across wide spaces, turned from side to side with quick, observant glances. Negroes, "worming" tobacco in a field, bent to their work as she passed with a sudden access of zeal. "That's right, boys," she called, smiling. "The Madam sees you!" The negroes guffawed sheepishly in answer.