The day came when Basil, summoned from the field to his wife's bedside, foundered his best hunter in his haste to see his son. The doctor met him at the door. "It is over, and well over," he said, gravely smiling. Mrs. Benoix added, "She never whimpered!" "Of course not, ma'am!" said Kildare. "Neither does my dog, Juno." He tiptoed to the bed, quietly for him, and stood gazing down at the little wrinkled head on Kate's breast, with a queer, sheepish pride on his face; somewhat the look of a schoolboy who receives a prize for good behavior. Kate smiled tremulously up at him, "Isn't she sweet?" His face fell. "Gad, a she-child, is it? Well, can't be helped. We'll name her for my rich Aunt Jemima. Better luck next time, Kit." But there was not better luck next time; there was worse luck. Less than a year later, Kildare inspected his second daughter. Kate was sleeping, the baby beside her covered to its chin. The nurse in attendance was the young mulatto woman who had looked so strangely at her new mistress when she came to Storm. Now her hostility to Kate seemed to have lost itself in devotion to Kate's child; the almost passionate devotion that makes of colored women such invaluable nurses. As Kildare approached, he was aware of this girl's eyes fixed upon him. Stealthily her hand went out, and drew away the sheet that covered the new baby. He ripped out a startled oath. "Good God! What's the matter with it, Mahaly? It's--it's damaged, ain't it?" Kate awoke with a gasping cry, and put her hands out to hide the little twisted body from his gaze. Fortunately the child died. "Fortunately," repeated the mother to herself now, without a quiver. To the end of her days she would carry in her heart the memory of its faint, unbabyish moaning. It opened to her the door of a new world, the world of suffering. She learned the agony of love that cannot help. The little Katherine lived long enough to make a woman of her; and strangely enough it reached the one soft spot in the heart of Basil Kildare. During its brief and piteous life, husband and wife came almost close to each other. To the man with his passion for physical perfection, the breeder of thoroughbred horses and cattle and dogs, the fact that a child of his should have been born without this precious heritage was a thing incredible, a humiliation beyond words. Whenever he looked at the tiny, whimpering creature, he asked pardon of her with his eyes for so monstrous an injustice. He never tired of carrying her about in his powerful arms, of rubbing the poor twisted limbs in an effort to ease the pain away. "The stock's sound enough," he would say again and again. "I'm all right, and you're all right, Kit. What's the matter with her?" Once he whispered in sudden horror, "I've been a pretty bad lot, Kate. God! Do you suppose _I'm_ to blame for this?" She comforted him with her arms about his neck.