Kate groped at the wall behind her for support. Here was a thing she had not thought of. She had known that she might lose her children's respect, perhaps, temporarily, their love; but she had counted unconsciously upon the force of daily habit, of companionship, of her own personal magnetism, to win back both, as she had won them from others. Deprived of their companionship, what chance had she? They were lost to her, utterly. Yet not even in that bitter moment did it occur to her that she might fail the man who was coming back to her out of his living death. She said tonelessly, "You are very young to leave your mother. Where could you go?" The girl had her answer ready. "To my father's aunt Jemima. Now I understand why you and she have not been on good terms. I understand many things now. When she hears that we are leaving you, and why, I think she will be glad to offer us a home." Kate bowed her head, "And Jacqueline? Is she, too, willing to leave me?" At this there was a cry from inside the door, and a dishevelled, sobbing figure flung itself into Kate's arms and clung, desperately. "No, no, _no_! Don't let her make me. I won't, I won't! She's been saying--oh, terrible things, Mummy! I tried not to listen. She said you didn't love us, you loved him. She said that when he comes--that man, Philip's father--you wouldn't want us around any more. But I know better. No matter who comes, you'll want _me_, you'll want your baby! Won't you, Mother? Dearest, darlingest Mother!" "Jacky, don't be so weak," commanded her sister, sternly. "Remember what I told you. Remember our father." "But I never knew our father. What do I care about him? It's Mummy I want. Whoever she loves, I love. I don't care _what_ she's done! I wouldn't care if she'd killed Father herself--" "Child, hush, hush!" whispered the trembling woman. "I wouldn't! I'd just know he needed killing. There, there--" she had her mother's head on her breast now, fondling it, crooning over it as if it were Mag's baby. "Look--you've made her cry!" She stamped a furious foot at her sister. "What are you staring at with your cold, wicked eyes? You told me she was a bad woman--my _mother_! If she is, then I choose to be bad myself. I'd rather be bad and like her than good as--God. Now, then! Get out of here, you Jemmy Kildare!" Jemima went. Sternly she closed her door upon the clinging pair, shutting both out together into the world of people who were not Kildares. But they were together. CHAPTER XIII The night before Jacques Benoix' release found Kate Kildare lying sleepless within sight of a grim gray wall that blocked the end of the street upon which her window opened. A great fatigue was upon her, a fatigue more of the spirit than of the body. For years, it seemed to her, she had been fighting the world alone, unaided; and now that victory was within her grasp it tasted strangely like defeat.