"Yes, thank you. Professor Thorpe has made all the arrangements. He will put me on the train in Lexington." Kate bent over her child. "Good-by, my daughter." Even then the tremble of a lip, a tear on an eyelash, might have brought them into each other's arms. But neither was the sort of woman who weeps in a crisis. They kissed, their lips quite cool and firm. It was Jacqueline who did the weeping for both of them, and insisted upon sitting in her mother's lap all the way to the station, so that Kate had some difficulty in driving.... Such were the scenes and memories that flitted through Kate's brain all the night before her wedding; and the night was long. Near morning she slept at last, and dreamed. Somebody stood beside her, smiling down--a stranger, she thought him, till she met his eyes. "Jacques!" she cried, starting up with hands outstretched. "You, Jacques!" The consoling vision for which she yearned had come at last; but not as she had seen it before, not in the prime of manhood, strong to hear her burdens. This was an elderly man, stooping, gray-haired, frail. Only the eyes were the same, blue as a child's in his wan face, warm as a caress. He spoke to her. He seemed to promise something. She awoke with his name on her lips, and saw that it was morning. Peace had come to her with the vision. She faced a new day, a new life, serene and unafraid. What was it that he had promised? No matter. She would ask him when she saw him, soon now. Smiling at her own credulity, she began with hasty hands to dress. Out in the street she heard the crisp trot of horses, stopping beneath her window. Looking down, she saw one of her own vehicles, a light phaeton drawn by a pair of young blooded colts she had sent in to Frankfort some days earlier, that they might be rested and fresh for the day's drive back to Storm, which was to be their wedding journey. She looked them over critically. "They are in excellent condition. We ought to make it in eight hours," she thought. "How he will love to drive those pretty fillies! He was always so fond of horses." Philip knocked on her door. His voice said, "I am ready now." It had been her idea to send him for Jacques alone, so that father and son might have a little time together before they came to her. She opened to him and stood, a white-clad vision, framed in the doorway of that dreary bridal suite. "You see, I am ready too," she said, blushing a little. "Do you like my dress, Philip?" He stared at her without speaking. His eyes were heavy and rimmed with shadow. For Philip, too, the night had been long. She asked again rather anxiously, "Do I look nice, Philip? It doesn't seem too--young for me, this white?" She was in need of all her vanity just then. The mirror had shown her a face pale and luminous, not less beautiful--she knew that--but far older than the face whose memory Jacques carried with him into prison. She was obsessed by the fear that he would not recognize her.