"It is the loveliest place in all the world," she said. "It has been
the loveliest home--and I the happiest woman. There has not been an
hour I would not live again."

She turned and lifted her eyes to his face and put one hand on his
broad breast. "And you, Gerald," she said; "you have been happy. Tell
me you have been happy, too."

"For twenty-eight years," he said, and folded his hand over hers. "For
twenty-eight years."

She bent her face against his breast and kissed the hand closed over
her own.

"Yes--yes; you have been happy," she said. "You have said it often; but
before I went away I wanted to hear you say it once again," and as she
gazed up smiling, a last ray from the sinking sun shot through the
window and made a halo about her deep gold hair.

_CHAPTER XII_

_In Which is Sold a Portrait_

There are sure more forces in this Universe than Man has so far
discovered, and so, not dreaming of them, can neither protect himself
against, nor aid them in their workings if he would. Who has not
sometimes fancied he saw their mysterious movings and--if of daring
mind--been tempted to believe that in some future, even on this earth,
the science of their laws might be sought for and explained? Who has
not seen the time when his own life, or that of some other, seemed to
flow, as a current flows, either towards or away from some end, planned
or unplanned by his own mind. At one time he may plan and struggle,
and, in spite of all his efforts, the current sweeps him away from the
object he strives to attain--as though he were a mere feather floating
upon its stream; at another, the tide bears him onward as a boat is
borne by the rapids, towards a thing he had not dreamed of, nor even
vaguely wished to reach. At such hours, resistance seems useless. We
seize an oar, it breaks in the flood; we snatch at an overhanging
bough, it snaps or slips our grasp; we utter cries for help, those on
the bank pass by not hearing, or cast to us a rope the current bears
out of reach. Then we cry "Fate!" and either wring our hands, or curse,
or sit and gaze straight before us, while we are swept on--either over
the cataract's edge and dashed to fragments, or out to the trackless
ocean, to be tossed by wind and wave till some bark sees and saves
us--or we sink.

From the time of his mother's speech with him after her return from
Gloucestershire, thoughts such as these passed often through Roxholm's
mind. "It might have be