“She makes us say strange things—­even so far distant,” he said.  “Perhaps you are right.  Yes, I will keep away.”

And even while he said it he was aware of a strange tumult in him, and knew that, senseless as it might appear, a new thing had sprung to life in him as if a flame had been lighted.  And even in its first small leaping he feared it.

’Twas a week later their Graces set forth upon their journey, and though Roxholm rode with them to Dover, and saw them aboard the packet, he always felt in after years that ’twas in the Long Gallery his mother had bidden him farewell.

They stood at the deep window at the end which faced the west and watched a glowing sunset of great splendour.  Never had the earth spread before them seemed more beautiful, or Heaven’s self more near.  All the west was piled with heaps of stately golden cloud—­great and high clouds, which were like the mountains of the Delectable Land, and filled one with awe whose eyes were lifted to their glories.  And all the fair land was flooded with their gold.  Her Grace looked out to the edge where moor and sky seemed one, and her violet eyes shone to radiance.

“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