Big Liza took it upon herself to administer consolation. "No you ain't, honey, no, you ain't! She was jes' nachelly bo'n dat-a-way. In co'se it's natchel enough fo' a body to take up with a gemman friend, but to leave her own baby-chile behine her--why, dat gal's aimin' fer hell-fire jus' as fas' as she kin trabbel!" Kate was reminded of poor Mag's parting gift, her "little hands and feet." She asked, sighing: "Where is the baby?" "Miss Jack's got her in her room." She entered unheard, and found Jacqueline holding the little whimpering creature tight against her breast, rocking and crooning to it. "There, there, precious! Did it miss its mama? Never mind, I know. They're tired of us, they've left us--I know. They just didn't want us any more. Never mind, pet! You've got me." Kate slipped away again with dim eyes, leaving Jacqueline and the deserted baby to comfort each other. CHAPTER XXXVIII Jacqueline had waited all that day for news from Channing, disappointed, more than a little humiliated, to think that he had failed where she had not, but making every allowance for him as a city-bred man not accustomed to storms such as that of the night before. Perhaps he had taken for granted that she would not venture out in it herself. Then, as no word came from him, either by note or by telephone, she began to worry. The lightning had been very bad. After all, storms can be dangerous. Possibly he had met with an accident. At last she could restrain herself no longer, and telephoned to Holiday Hill. A noncommittal man-servant informed her that Mr. Farwell was still away (he had gone to Cincinnati on business for several days), and that the other gentleman had left unexpectedly the night before. He did not add that the household was all agog with the extreme unexpectedness of his leaving. Jacqueline asked, rather tremulously, whether he would be returning soon. The servant thought not, as he had since telegraphed for all his luggage to be sent on to New York. It was then that she began to realize what had happened to her. She still made excuses for him to herself. He had been thinking of her--he had decided that he could not accept her sacrifice. Perhaps he had been thinking a little of her mother, too, left alone there at Storm. Yes, she was sure he had been thinking a little of her mother, whom he so greatly admired, not understanding how eager Mrs. Kildare was for her children's happiness.--He would write, of course, and explain.... She dared not think of the blank and dreary future, but lived from hour to hour, watching for the mails. When the postman stopped on his daily round at the foot of Storm Hill, she was always waiting for him. Sometimes she met him down the road, in her eagerness. But there was never a letter for her, except now and then a line from the traveling Mrs. Thorpe.